Editor's note: Diane Kolmer first told this story on stage at the Des Moines Storytellers Project's "Travel." The Des Moines Storytellers Project is a series of storytelling events in which community members work with Register journalists to tell true, first-person stories live on stage. An edited version appears below.
Leaning down to make eye contact, the doctor urged, demanded, that I take a month off, get away, out of phone contact, far away from my office and job environment so I can relearn how to eat and more importantly — live.
I was the field representative for U.S. Sen. George McGovern in Aberdeen, South Dakota. A small, flat, northern town of strip clubs, livestock yards, railroads and one overpass. It was October 1978, just before a consequential November election. I was 24.
While McGovern was not up for election that year, his position supporting a particular rural water issue was threatening his ability to be reelected in 1980. This issue was supported by the large monied contractors and opposed by the small family farmers that would lose land to the project, with minimal payback. I was working to mediate between the family farmers that elected McGovern to the Senate for years and were considering voting against him in 1980 due to his support of the water project.
My dream as a young person was to work in the U.S. Senate. Now I was — and it was just about to kill me.
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I could not influence the senator to change his support for the project and I couldn’t influence his supporters not to abandon their longstanding support for him due to that. I would drag myself from meeting to meeting realizing I had no control over anything that was affecting me.
As a young woman I was always conscious of my weight. Seems the societal pressure to be the thinnest girl in town had seeped into my consciousness. In the midst of this ongoing and increasing pressure to get McGovern’s supporters back on board, I found less and less time to eat. Before I knew it I was living on coffee and saltines, and losing weight, a lot of weight.
I was an anorexic before the term was part of common vernacular. When I did try to eat something of substance I would throw it up not long after eating it. After a few weeks of that I felt as though I would literally fade away as someone was looking at me. There was so little of me left, both physically, emotionally and practically.
That’s when I went to see my doctor, who put me in the hospital right away. After a long week of liquid diets and IVs of saline, I had developed a trust for this doctor, a true source of support and perspective. His admonition to physically get away from my demanding job and to relearn how to eat was not a suggestion as much as a demand to ensure my ability to live and thrive.
At this time I had just gotten word that a dear friend from previous college days had gotten a job teaching in Paris, as in Paris, France, and he invited me to visit. I decided I had to advocate for myself and get to Paris and follow my doctor’s orders.
I drove from Aberdeen to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to get a charter flight to Frankfurt, Germany, and then take a train from Frankfurt to Paris. Now this was pre cell phones, no internet, and the only way to tell my friend, Steve, when I would arrive in Paris was by telegraph from the Frankfurt airport. As I got off the plane in Frankfurt, one thing that screamed American was the unwieldy and ugly mustard color vinyl suitcase I was hauling behind me.
The Frankfurt airport was the biggest place I had ever been in — it even had a train station in it! I had to find the trains to Paris in the station. I lugged my mustard vinyl suitcase along and I quickly saw that the next train to Paris left in 15 minutes. Not enough time to telegraph Steve but the next train after that was in four or five hours. And I did not want to sit in that train station/airport for that time. So I quickly, and fatefully, decided to take the next train, and skip the telegraph to Steve.
Once I got on the train, I lugged my vinyl monster down the narrow aisle of the train car and saw an empty glassed compartment with mahogany paneling and green velvet seating for six to eight people. With great relief I threw myself onto a seat and dumped my mustard buddy on the floor. Just as I was doing that an obsequious, lecherous looking cigarette dangling man with a snack cart was making his way behind me into the compartment. Thick cigarette smoke did not obscure his intent and just as I was working up my gumption to defend myself a crew of young French sailors came down the aisle and quickly moved past him and dispatched his cart out of sight. With one of them knowing English, I had delightful companions on the way to Paris.
Upon disembarking at the Gare du Nord train station I had to figure out how to find Steve in the middle of Paris, with only an address, and no French, no phone number. But first I had to see how to change my dollars to French francs. Then I had to see how one got a ticket to ride the Metro. Then I had to figure out how to find this address.
Luckily it was on one of the huge streets in Paris — the Rue de Rivoli — so it was represented on all the Metro subway train maps. A true god send.
I decided to get on a subway line that would take me to a stop near that street, without having to change subways to get there. Now through all this I was living on coffee and saltines again, with no sleep since leaving Aberdeen the day before. I could almost feel my doctor telling me to eat and not walk by one boulangerie without getting several pieces of pastry. I resolutely told myself I would do just that as soon as I found Steve, as I suffered my infinite number of French coffees hangover. As I rode on the Metro I felt like a porcupine since all my nerves were working on overdrive — not much real food and not a clue what comes next as I come up from the underground Metro.
As I topped the stairs from the Metro station I noted architecture I’ve only seen in the movies or in photos set amongst leafy green trees on brick laid narrow streets. Six- to eight-story buildings from the l800s with the legendary sidewalk cafes with people lounging, drinking coffee, wine and laughing as the world goes by.
I realized I needed to find a cab, near collapse from exhaustion and hunger I cross a plaza to step off the curb to get a cab. I am still moving my behemoth yellow mustard monster suitcase, and no, the cabbie does not help me put it in the trunk. I get in the back of the cab and lean forward showing him the address on a scrap of paper. He nods, almost laughing with near disgust at the American. Now I am worried that Steve may not be home since I had not gotten the telegraph off to him. I am dropped off at the address.
It’s a busy piece of Paris. The address is a building from about 1820 with seven or eight floors, a dark foyer with mailboxes that have names and numbers ... but not one with Steve’s name. Just as I sink into total defeat a young boy comes from nowhere and says "bonjour," and I quickly lean down and point to Steve’s name on the piece of paper with the address and ask if he knows him. The young boy says "oui oui" and then motions for me to follow up six floors.
As I turn to say thank you, he is gone. But I turn to find Steve opening the door.
As I open myself up to Paris, Steve is my guide to all the different aspects of Parisian life — one being the all important and doctor directive patronage of boulangeries and bakery shops. The near constant smell of the bakery wafting through our neighborhood was intoxicating and did its job of enticing me to get several flakey croissants and chocolate eclairs daily.
On a road trip to the Normandy coast we stopped for dinner and had stewed rabbit. A very simple but extravagant meal for me. The taste was enhanced by the recognition of my need to change my life with a joy of eating. It was up to me to relearn this vital part of life and it helped me heal myself of anorexia.
Self advocacy was my guiding light.
On one of our Louvre museum visits I suddenly could feel how large the world truly is. Looking at the "Mona Lisa" and work by Van Gogh and other famous artists gave me a perspective that showed me how to be a part of the bigger world. The world that was bigger than my small Senate job. It showed me the benefit of widening the scope of my world, and how to picture myself in it.
That’s what led me to different jobs that were not part of the original plan. They led me to great satisfaction, but it came at a price. About four years after Paris I awoke to a buzzing in my foot and two days later I’m back in the hospital with my whole body limp and buzzing.
I had developed multiple sclerosis, but it was not diagnosed until four years later with the advent of the MRI technology. I continued to work different jobs leading to my ultimate lobbying job, but then one day I collapsed at the Iowa State Capitol and never went back to work. That was over 25 years ago. Upon the worsening of the MS I advocated for a power wheelchair to allow me to do more with the limited energy that MS allows.
One lesson from the anorexia nervosa was I am the only one that was going to take care of me. The doctor that guided me through this time was invaluable to my recovery and ultimate release from anorexia. His lessons in self worth were definitive and left deep impressions.
I learned how to see the world and understand my place in it, and know, that while I’m not as mobile, I am still a part of my world and am thankful for all of it, past and present.
After all, adversity, challenges, and bumps in the road are often the first signs that a great healing has begun.
ABOUT THE STORYTELLER: Diane Kolmer lives in West Des Moines with her husband of 41 years and their dog, Nellie. Her last job was as a lobbyist for the phone company. An inveterate letter to the editor writer and amateur poet, she also does color projects with adult coloring books.
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