Ally

I was never very good at saying goodbyes. Ally wasn't either, and yet there we were on what we both knew was our last night together. "Let's make it quick, " Angie said. "There's always more to be said. So let's just say good bye and then know we can always email each other."

"Good idea," I said.

Two hours later and we were still "saying our goodbyes," or at least talking when we said we'd be sleeping. So much for keeping it simple.

Ally was one of the first people who talked to me when I came to McCallum Place. She was from L.A. like my sister, so that was what initially brought us together. It wasn't until a couple days later that I realized her job back in L.A. was a child and adolescent psychiatrist.

"I tend to leave that part out until I really get to know a person. It can really freak some people out," she said casually as she looked around the room to see if anyone else was listening. I of course had the urge to ask her what it was like being a doctor, a psychiatrist no less, in an eating disorder treatment facility, but I stopped myself. I'm sure she gets those questions all the time, I thought. Looking back I'm glad I didn't bombard her with lots of "What's it like?" questions, because I saw how these constant inquiries from others affected her. She was here to get help, just like the rest of us, not tell tales of "life on the other side" just to feed our need for good stories.

This is one of the things Ally said she really appreciated about me. "You never treated me any differently, " she said. Of course I didn't. I saw her as Ally-- fellow patient and friendly confidant, Chris Rock impersonator, the disher-outter of the best sarcasm around-- not as Dr. Ally James, chief resident at UCLA medical school.

My time at McCallum Place was full of ups and downs, good days and bad, but the one aspect that remained pretty constant up until her leaving was Ally. Ally was always there to add a bit of humor to an otherwise frustrating situation, or to be that wise voice of reason when nothing else was making sense. Ally liked to tell it like it was. This turned off some people, but I found it refreshing and admirable. When I would come home night after night with my frustrations about Kat, my then roommate and source of continual annoyance, Ally was always there to put things into perspective. "Today Kat told two people they were getting too big and asked me how much weight I'd gained since being here. I want to fucking kill her," I'd say.

"You know why she's saying that, don't know? She's saying that because she's so insecure about the weight she's gained," Ally would say. Well of course I knew that, but it helped to hear it so matter-of-factly.

"Today Kat told me and Lisa we should 'be farther along in our lives'," I said. "We're both turning 24 next month and what do we have to show for it? She's right. I've been saying this all along. Diane is only a year older than us and she's already a practicing therapist. We really haven't done anything in our lives'."

"Again Becca, hear what she's saying. You and Lisa talk about Diane like she's this freak of a person for being so together at 25. How old is Kat? She's 27. What has she done with her life? Isn't she still living in her aunt's basement on disability?" Ally was right once again. Another example of Kat putting others down to build herself up. Why couldn't I see that before getting so upset?

My friendship with Ally grew even stronger when I moved into the transition house with her about two months into my stay. Here we had a routine of eating our nighttime snack together then sticking around to talk for what always ended up being several hours of meaningful conversation sprinkled with bits of humor that allowed us both to relax and unwind. We talked about why people like Kat were so hard to make sense of, why people like Brittany were still so dead set on being the sickest ones in treatment, about how Dr. J just might be in for more than he bargained for. I'm going to miss Ally, but I'll never forget the valuable lessons she's taught me.