The Choice by Bernadette Bohan

small frame, and I normally weigh around 45 kilos, or seven and a half stone. I had heard that people could put on weight with steroids, and the last thing I wanted to do was to acquire the physique of an Eastern Bloc shot-putter. But since that July, when I started taking prednisone, I had been ravenous. Even after a huge meal I would still be hungry and I was constantly fighting the urge to binge. Although I was aware of eating healthily and always tried to be careful, I quickly did put on weight – muscle weight, as well as fat weight. It was hard, rock hard, like a layer of cement under my skin. My stomach looked engorged, almost pregnant. My neck was thick, solid with a mass of hard tissue. My face was so swollen I could hardly see the television. My ankles were huge and my shoes no longer fitted me. Within two months of starting the treatment my whole body had swollen up like a balloon. I could not look in the mirror without crying.
‘I’ve never made love to a fatty before,’ said Ger, trying to make me laugh. ‘Your boobs are gorgeous.’ He did make me feel better, and I was determined not to let my hideous shape affect the way I behaved. I believed that these drugs were making me well again and I wanted to live much, much more than I wanted to be thin again. So I still shuffled up the hill to collect the children and tried to ignore the looks from people who didn’t know me. It did hurt when people I knew fairly well would cross the road rather than speak to me, and I kept telling myself that it was because they were embarrassed and did not know what to say to me.
I did get out when I could, and not just to the school gates. I went shopping in my ‘good’ periods, just down to the local supermarket. As I handed the groceries to the cashier one day, who was a girl I knew quite well, she looked up at me in surprise.
‘Jesus, what happened to your face?’ The words were out before she realized how appalling they sounded. She clapped her hands over her mouth and looked stricken.
‘I’m on medication right now,’ was all I could manage.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she called after me. ‘I didn’t mean …’
I got home somehow, and shut the door behind me. Safe once more, I leaned against it and decided never, ever to go into that shop again. I don’t think of myself as a vain person. I look OK, that’s all, and I don’t bother with make-up every time I go out – a slick of lippy normally does the trick for me. But to feel truly ugly, that is a different matter. My face was round, moon-shaped. I thought I looked like a giant chipmunk.
One morning we had a parents’ meeting at the school to discuss our children’s work. I dressed carefully, taking care with my appearance as much as I could, for I always liked the children to be proud of me. The meeting took place in Sarah’s classroom, and while I was waiting I occupied myself with looking at the brightly coloured artwork on the walls. I was the next one to be seen, and Sarah’s teacher looked up at me and then down at her list. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, extending her hand and introducing herself. ‘You must be, ah, Sarah’s aunt?’ My heart stopped.
‘No, actually I’m her mother, but I’m on medication at the minute,’ I managed to blurt out.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she stammered, clearly embarrassed by her mistake. Somehow we both got through the meeting, which was not easy since at that time Sarah was not doing too well at school, and I blamed myself for not being able to give her enough attention at home. As I left the school, tears were rolling down my cheeks. My own child’s teacher doesn’t recognize me, I thought. Will I ever look normal again? I didn’t see one of the other mothers coming towards me and, disorientated, I almost walked into her. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, seeing my