Chapter 2
After that, our days fell into a rhythm, rising and setting around Papa’s sessions at the San and the needs of his failing body. Mother and I would wake to the smell of Mrs. Gregory’s cooking—lured out of our warm beds by the scent of sausage or bacon and fresh-baked biscuits. In the pale morning light, we would wash and dress, our bodies shivering as we slipped from our nightclothes into stockings and sweaters. We’d descend the creaky stairs and eat the hearty breakfast that Mrs. Gregory laid out for us, appreciative of the hissing cookstove that dispersed its warmth throughout the space. Then we’d climb back upstairs and prepare Papa for the day. We’d wheel him to the campus, usually over ice or snow, and deliver him for his full schedule of treatments—sessions in the indoor swimming pools, private appointments with doctors and nurses and massage therapists, lectures, and group meals of Dr. Kellogg’s personally prescribed vegetarian dishes in the massive dining room.
Back at the house, I’d sit with Mother while she sewed or read, occasionally finding some entertainment as Mrs. Gregory’s kittens chased one another or a spool of yarn. But really, I passed the hours eagerly awaiting Papa’s return at the end of the day.
Papa took no meals at home with us. The San provided for each patient a diet built on vegetables pulled straight from the earth and bland bran products made according to Dr. Kellogg’s own handwritten recipes. Salt was forbidden, as were caffeine and sugar. No coffee, tobacco, tea, or wine. Fresh air, regardless of the weather, was prescribed each day, as well as indoor exercises and water treatments in the many pools.
Our Battle Creek days stretched to weeks and then months, and I remember the giddy excitement I felt in the early spring when I was finally going to have the chance to meet the mysterious Dr. Kellogg, a man whom I knew Papa to see regularly for his treatments but who had thus far, to me, remained cloistered behind the inner walls of his labyrinthine hospital. “He has summoned us for a private meeting in his study,” Mother announced at the table that morning. “He wishes to speak about Mr. Post’s…progress.”
Mrs. Gregory, who sat opposite Mother, was stitching the waistline of a pair of Papa’s trousers. The woman frowned into her lap as she said, “Might I suggest, Mrs. Post, that you ask the good doctor when Mr. Post might be allowed to eat some real food? I’m taking these pants in yet again, but the weight keeps coming off him, and pretty soon, there won’t be anything to keep ’em up.”
Mother shifted in her chair. “I’m certain we will hear about dietary matters…among other things.”
Mrs. Gregory rose and placed her mug in the large washbasin, allowing Mother to sit and finish her own drink. “I say the man needs to eat more than that rabbit food they offer them up at the San. But I’m no doctor.”
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I accompanied Mother and Papa as we made our way to the San. The air had lost the knife-edge of cold, and the smell of manure hung thicker in the breeze. I now needed only one layer of stockings when we took our walks. As we entered the lobby of the San, a dark-haired nurse checked us in and then whisked us down a hallway through which we’d not previously been invited. Attendants and patients filed past, the bright corridor filled with a well-ordered air of purposefulness. Eventually, we came to a closed set of double doors, and the nurse paused, knocking gently. Another attendant, this one male, answered from within. I followed behind Mother as she pushed Papa into a quiet, clean antechamber. I could see an office through another doorway, and just a moment later I heard the softly spoken words: “Come in.” The attendants nodded toward us, and we walked slowly toward that beckoning voice.
In that first glimpse of the doctor, I was struck by the overall impression of colorlessness—of a pearly-white umbra so pristine as to appear sterile. He was like untouched snow, entirely unlike the farmlands surrounding us that were covered in a brown-gray layer of muddied, late-winter slush. Dr. Kellogg was white from head to toe, from the shock of hair atop his head and his thick, plentiful mustache to his starched white suit and tie and all the way down to his polished shoes. Even his pale eyes appeared somehow devoid of color.
The male attendant and the nurse left us alone, shutting the door quietly on their exit, and Dr. Kellogg stood from behind his gleaming, massive mahogany desk. He looked first toward Mother, then to Papa, who slumped under a wool blanket in his wheelchair. “Ah, Mr. Post,” the doctor greeted my father by name as we stood at the threshold of his study, the space large and sparkling clean, the walls neatly decorated with several framed portraits—serious-looking men whose names I did not know at my young age. Orderly bookshelves were arranged with weighty leather tomes that showed not a single speck of dust. “Please, sit.” Dr. Kellogg raised a hand and then retook his place behind his large desk as Mother took a seat opposite him. I shuffled closer to her and sat in her lap. Papa’s wheelchair was beside us.