I even went to Trader Joe’s earlier and loaded up on fun snacks to prepare for that night! Then, when Joey actually shows up, here, in L.A., at my apartment and on my couch, and the potential to build an authentic connection with someone is REAL (beyond banging), I insist we go “get quesadillas” at the ‘70s-themed bar nearby. This bar also happens to have excellent Old Fashions.
After we “eat quesadillas” and drink-drink-drink, I insist on going to my favorite dive bar right around the corner, an absolute Hollywood institution with a big neon sign out front, a mural from the ‘60s protected by plexiglass inside, and a few barflies who hang around all hours of the day and who are all named Tony.
I only remember what happens next because I’ve forced myself to replay the scene in my head so many times: Joey asks me to remove my hand from my chin. A stream of blood shoots out in his direction.
“I think we need to go to the hospital,” he says.
A homeless man comes out from beneath the overpass where I almost literally ate cement and offers his bottled water to help rinse off the blood that’s now all over my face, neck, chest, and legs. Joey calls an Uber. I remember thinking that I’ll probably be going to the hospital alone.
I remember the CAT scan, and the look the doctor gives me when he says, “You broke your jaw, and you’re going to have to get it wired shut.”
I remember asking, “What if I didn’t do that?”
“Well, you’re going to have to,” he says. I remember Joey standing over me at the hospital, with this exact look: 😬
Weeks later, my jaw is wired shut after the most painful surgery I’ve ever been FULLY CONSCIOUS FOR (a story for another time). I’m on a liquid diet, subsisting on the most nutrient-dense liquids I know: bone broth, Soylent, and green smoothies.
My stomach physically hurts every night. I fall asleep to the sound of it moaning.
Out of all the stupid things I’ve done when I was drunk, this, I decide, is my rock bottom. To not be able to chew, savor, and swallow your food was something I took for granted before. You won’t find that one on any of my gratitude lists pre-2019.
I rapidly lost weight. On top of not eating, the shock from the surgery made me sick, almost like I had the flu. Painkillers on an empty stomach probably didn’t help. My extremely nice neighbor who really likes the Grateful Dead ran to the store to get me sugar-filled drinks like Naked Juice and Gatorade so I had the energy to recover. I kept a pair of wire cutters close by in case I vomited. With my mouth wired shut, I’d choke. I lived alone at the time.
At one point, I stepped on the scale and cried. I was hovering just above a number I hadn’t seen since I went through puberty. I was afraid that if I lost too much weight I wouldn’t be able to fully heal, meaning my jaw would have to stay shut longer than 6 weeks. I really missed being able to talk.
After the 3- or 4-week mark, I went to the specialist’s office where I had the surgery for a checkup. “Caitlin…” the nurses cooed from behind the front desk as they sprung to their feet when I walked through the front door. They looked so happy to see me.
“How much weight have you lost?” one asked. I swear there was a shimmer in her eye.
“About 20 so far,” I told them.
“Ugh, I’m SO jealous,” said another. I felt like I was fucking dying.
Eventually I regained my ability to think clearly and re-downloaded MyFitnessPal like any other person who’s obsessed with tracking calories — this time, to ensure I was eating enough. I started blending mashed potatoes and chicken tortilla soup from El Pollo Loco and blasting it into the back of my throat with a mini turkey baster. I’ll never forget appreciating the heaviness and warmth in my stomach the first time I did that. My weight stabilized.
