For a Friend R. M. Cooper (bio) Isabelle had been dead for six months before I read her obituary on Twitter. Six weeks later, I still wasn’t sleeping well, so Dave suggested I try a cleanse. Juice/herbs/kelp/whatever. I told Dave what I thought of it, and he dropped the subject. The next week, I started having Isabelle flashbacks. I wish there was a better word for them. They weren’t “flashbacks” in the Vietnam or acid sense. It’d be more like I’m watching Netflix when all of a sudden: isabelle flashback We’re eight and Isabelle has a cast on her left leg. We sit around her kitchen table and Isabelle’s mom is talking about how her bones might grow back uneven. Like, Isabelle’s healed femur would probably be shorter than the other the rest of her life. Not even an inch. Fractions. Less even. “Isn’t that interesting?” Her mom smiles when she says it. Then her mom frowns. “No. Izzy won’t limp.” I don’t remember asking the questions. Just her mom’s answers. I don’t know why. Other flashbacks are different. I don’t make the rules. “No. No one will even notice.” “Of course they won’t think something’s wrong with her.” “No. She won’t be ugly. No. No, don’t cry, Izzy. Why would you ever ask that?” After every flashback, I spend the next forty-eight hours obsessing over it until Dave tells me the same thing for the thousandth time: “You don’t have to feel this way, Sarah. Nobody has to feel this way.” Dave sent me a bunch of links about the way our bodies react to stress, about toxins and cell memory. Dave promised I’ll feel better after the cleanse. He said in ten years they’ll be the norm. No different than sitting [End Page 143] shiva. No more uncomfortable silences. No moping. No depression. It’s all chemicals and hormones. The body doesn’t require misery any more than it does refined sugar. Let that shit go. So I ordered one of those forty-eight-hour all-natural boxes online. I downloaded a bunch of movies onto my phone and read articles about how to keep your legs from falling asleep on the toilet. I bought a box of Pedialyte. Hydration is very important during the first twenty-four hours. I read and I read. I figured I was ready. important note on cleanse instructions: “48 hours” doesn’t necessarily begin when you swallow the first capsule. “48 hours” can mean “begins after 48 hours” or “lasts for 48 hours” or whatever the hell else they want. Cleanses aren’t monitored by the fda or the cdc or whoever is supposed to ensure that children’s Tylenol won’t give you a stroke. It says so right in the small print. Remember those stories of synthetic weed from the 2010s? It’s like that. Nobody knows anything. There’s no one to hold responsible. It’s unregulated. The Wild West. I mean, I’m sure Gwyneth Paltrow is a fantastic human being. But that’s not really the point. Because when you think about it, should you really be buying laxative from actors? Fact: I knew none of this at the time. I took the first cleanse capsule on Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Nothing happened. I assumed I’d ordered a dud. I was mildly annoyed but not surprised. I cursed the hippie industrial complex and wrote an angry review on Amazon and moved on with my life. Thought maybe I’d use the Pedialyte as an excuse to train for a marathon. That seemed more productive. I had another sleepless night Sunday and went to work Monday. Then it happened. Happens. Is still happening. ________ The cold sweats hit during an hr meeting. 10:15 am. By 10:17, I’m doing ninety on the interstate for home, doing that Lamaze breathing which for some reason becomes instinctual when you’re trying not to crap your pants. I know saying “crap your pants” isn’t very ladylike. You know what’s less ladylike? Literally crapping...
Read full abstract