I lost 20 pounds this year. Most people would be glad to type that, rejoicing in reaching some New Years’ goal. I never intended to lose 20 pounds. I didn’t need to lose 20 pounds. I didn’t need to lose any weight. Especially not in the space of three months. Especially not because there were days when my stomach was so nauseated that the thought of eating was unbearable. Especially not because there were days when all I wanted to do was sleep until it all felt better. Especially not because there were days I was so tired and weary that I had no focus or energy. To look at me, you’d never know I was sick. People assume that I look young and healthy, so I must be. But the illness that edges my days, that keeps me on a six-hour schedule for my medication, that prompts me to carry fast-acting anti-nausea pills in my pocket, that causes me to bring water with me everywhere I go in case I have to take something, that keeps protein bars in my purse because if I get too hungry I’ll be nauseat...