Munchausen by Proxy
by Ethan Andrade, Class of 2025

I lay in bed for countless hours, head facing the ceiling. My mind skipped through daydreams in a lazy daze and I recount a strange interaction with my mother, a widowed, slender woman.

“Karin, you have a haircut appointment after school,” she said as she placed four white pills into my mouth. They sizzled and passed like a freight train down the tunnel that was my throat. It was always a funny feeling, swallowing the new medication she gave me. Mother said it was for my condition.

You see, I started to lose the feeling in my legs a few days after she injected me with that unfamiliar medicine. It came in a needle and before my dog Jewels passed away, and she would give it to her too.

“It's to ease the pain.”

I guess it's strange that she would be giving me dog medicine but mother always knows best.

Anyways, after school Monday, or was it Tuesday, maybe three-four-five days ago? My memory is wonky. Mom says my condition is getting worse. She thinks it's some kind of cancer, but she won't take me to the doctor.

“It's too expensive dear, and why spend all that money when we have medicine here?”

She never told me what kind of illness I had which was odd considering she knew the exact antibodies to give me. In order to avoid the embarrassment and bullying because of my hair loss, mom pulled me out of public schools. She says it would be best if she could monitor me all day, then kids wouldn't be able to torment me. “You know how kids are,” she always said.

I have forgotten how it feels to be a kid or even interact with one. She made the barber shave off all my hair until only little pricks stood on my head like a kiwi. When I returned home, she rolled me in my wheelchair down to my little room, my sanctuary, and when I lay down she popped some more pills into my mouth and gave me a bottle of water.

This time I counted eight tablets as opposed to my usual five, or was it four? Weird. I thought about correcting her, but I didn't because I was too frail to speak. “Take this baby, you'll feel better,” she always said. But I never felt better. In fact, I don't recall having any sort of illness to feel better for. No allergies, no colds, nothing.

I lay in bed and faced the ceiling once more until mother re-entered the room with my injection. She drove the needle deep and the peculiar blue serum streamed into my bony left arm. I don't eat much now. It hurts to eat.