Revised- I need a title

Abby, my fifteen–year-old daughter, is midair, captured in a moment I perceive as utter joy. Her muscled legs have sprung into action in a flash of grace and power. Her healthy body lifts effortlessly three feet into the air. Her arms stretch skyward as if all of life’s gifts are within her reach.
The photograph was taken in June 2008 by one of her then many friends. By the middle of October, I was faced with a very different image. An eating disorder had invaded, occupied and warped my daughter’s brain. Mirrors lured her into their distorted reflections. Deceived by their warped reality, Abby refused to eat. She was twenty pounds lighter, eating 400 calories, if any, daily and exercising excessively . She was losing an average of two pounds a week. Abby was starving herself to death. And I was scared to death.
I wasn’t powerless, though. Thanks to a program that uses The Maudsley Approach, I had faith that my daughter would prevail. This approach does not place blame or search for causes. It treats the physical symptoms of the disease. Families play the integral role of re-feeding the patient. I would become Abby’s nurse, charged with the mission of finding ways to insist that she eat.
After being evaluated and diagnosed with an eating disorder in mid October, Abby and I had been driving to Portland’s Mercy Hospital every week to meet with a therapist to help us conquer this insidious disease. I became very educated. What I learned horrified me. Anorexia is one of the deadliest psychiatric diseases. It’s estimated that up to 15% die from starvation or suicide. About one third make progress but struggle with a life-long obsession with food. Many suffer from depression, anxiety or become substance abusers. If Anorexia is not treated early on, it takes an average of five to seven years to recover. We needed to beat the eating disorder before it became full-blown Anorexia. I was not going to allow Abby to become part of these statistics. Hope whispered to me from the photograph.
By mid-November, the enemy had not retreated. The Abby I knew was disappearing before my eyes, and in her place was a despondent stranger. My little girl, full of spunk from the day she hit the ground, sat in front of me, slouched in an over-sized sweatshirt, eyes lifeless. As I had been doing since October, I made a healthy plate of food for the two of us, set hers down in front of her and braced myself for a battle.
“Mom, this is way too much. I have at least two servings of protein here. Look, it’s two of my fists at least! Butter on the broccoli! I’ve had all my fats for the day. What are you trying to do to me? You’re gonna make me fat!” Her face was twisted in terror.
Stay calm, I thought to myself. Remember the picture of the anorexic brain. I heard the therapist’s voice in my head, ‘we’ve found that if we reverse it within the first eight months, chances of total cure are good. After that time, chances decrease’. Ignoring my frantic inner-voice, I said in a calm but firm voice, "Abby, I’m going to sit here with you until everything is eaten. There is no negotiating. It’s my job to give you what you need because the disease prevents you from doing it right now.”
In defeat, she bowed her head and began eating. It was, relatively speaking, a successful meal. Although she sat expressionless, methodically dividing and eating miniscule morsel, after forty-five long minutes, the meal was eaten.
Then it was time for dessert. I placed a chocolate chip cookie in front of her. “No, Mom! I can’t. You know I can’t. I’m not eating that. I’ve done all I can for today. Please, Mom, NO!”
“Abby,” I began, “ you need to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you. I love you. I’ll sit here until you’re finished.” I was exhausted and unsure if we could continue this battle alone. I persevered, remembering the joy and grace that was once Abby's. It would be hers again.
She looked at the cookie, and for a flicker of a second, I thought she'd take it into her hand. Instead, she pushed back her chair and screamed, “No way! You’re just trying to make me fat! I can’t. I won’t. You can’t make me!” She stormed off. I heard her angry footsteps make their way upstairs. I took a deep breath and followed her up the stairs, chocolate chip cookie clenched in my hand. She yelled down to me, “You can’t make me eat it!”
No, I can’t, I thought, but I’ll find a way for you to eat it. I’m not giving up at this point. If I do, every effort I made before would be wasted.
Determined, I took one step at a time, thinking of all that this disease had taken from her. In a few short months, it had stolen much of her life away. The doctors worried that her heart was at risk, so she was forced to give up hockey, a sport she played with passion. While her hockey buddies were busy on the ice she was forbidden to engage in any physical activity in an attempt to conserve precious calories. Her life became a constant struggle with food. There was no energy or time to engage in any social activities. Her cell phone stopped ringing. The once familiar buzz signaling a text message became a heartbreaking silence. There was no rushing to the computer to check Face Book. The constant rattle of fingers instant messaging on the keyboard was ominously silenced. The disease was tenacious and would not surrender easily.
When I entered her room, she was in her bed in the fetal position. Her quiet sobs shook her emaciated body, causing tiny shifts in the blankets that covered her. “Abby, please. You know I won’t leave you alone until you eat it.” I sat on the bed and pulled the covers from her face. Her bloated eyes glanced at the cookie as if it were poison. She moved away from her bed toward the door, begging me not to make her eat it. I follow her. She slumped onto the floor. One hour and many pleads and tears later, exhausted and beaten, she began to break the cookie into tiny bites. After the first bite, I sighed a cautious sigh of relief. Another hour later, the cookie was eaten. Another tiny step forward. This disease would not prevail.
A few minutes later I heard the desperate sounds of her feet pounding the stairs in an effort to shed the calories she’d consumed. I cursed the disease, went to her and said, “If you continue doing that, you know you’ll have to eat some more to make up for it. Abs, please, can’t you see that the disease is making you do this?” She looked at me, releasing a moan, dropped to the floor in a heap and began sobbing again. I walked over to her. She pleaded, “Please help me, Mom. I don’t want to do this any more. I don’t want to be like this, please. Make it go away! It’s so awful! Even as I say this, I’m telling myself that my stomach is too fat. I can feel the fat rolling. I don’t want to feel like this any more!”
This was the beginning of the end of the eating disorder’s hold over my daughter. Abby began to see the difference between the disease and her healthy self. She began to trust that I knew what was best and that I would not allow the disease to defeat her. A few more months passed, and together we re-nourished her body and mind. By March she had established a healthy weight. Slowly and incrementally, she began to take more control over food. Bit by bit, the disease retreated and I began to see my daughter re-emerge. By May she was making her own plate, with little input from me.
In June, Abby had a breakthrough made indelible for me by a precious moment. She had gone out with a friend, and when she returned, bounced into the kitchen with a grin that her face could barely hold. “Mom, guess what?” she asked. “Guess what I did today? I actually chose to have an ice cream cone. And Mom, I enjoyed it. I really enjoyed it!” I looked into her dancing eyes and saw pure joy for the first time in over nine months. We’d beaten the disease. My little girl was home. I glanced over to the fridge, zooming in on the photograph, and was reassured that life's gifts were once again within Abby's reach.