The fifty pound mark is hovering in front of me. Perhaps I will pass it this weekend or perhaps I will pass it when I pass it. Losing the weight happens similar to a teapot boiling. I follow the diet as close as I am able. Thankfully, I skipped pureed food graduating to the soft food diet for the next month. As I barely eat my two slices of turkey and slice of cheese my thoughts linger seven weeks earlier.
My former life:
Imagine a man at his peak weight of 450+ who could consume in one sitting: two large pasta entrees; a dozen breadsticks; a liter of soda, but usually it was diet; a cookie; piece of cheesecake. Then, a couple of rice krispy treats and several larger than life cookies from the bookstore swallowed nearly whole. He knows that if he eats too fast, no matter how tasty, he will throw up so he paces himself. If he's hungry later around two in the morning, Whataburger will provide a triple meat cheeseburger, largest size available of fries and onion rings, and another monster soda; sometimes two as a precaution against red lights. His four minute drive home is now seven minutes. Gone is second soda, either the fries or onion rings, or both. And maybe, on special nights, a small burger before the triple cheese burger.
He never eats like this in front of others. His portions are large compared to others when dining with people, but consumption like this is private. Eaten only in the confines of his home can he truly feed his hunger pains. His body will punish him later with acid reflux; diarrhea; occasional impotence; hemorrhoids; gas; ass sweats that soak through; no love life; inner shame and humiliation. Yet, he eats more and more.
Some nights the pasta, other nights burgers, or Chinese food (four different entrees), or Tex Mex, or an entire big box of Corn Pops mixed with Rice Krispies. Or, two cans Sirloin Burger with lots of crumbled saltines and even more cheese melted inside. Or, when traveling, a couple of entrees off room service because they are closing for the night. Does it really matter you aren't that hungry?
This goes on for years. Yet, he eats more and more while his body continues to punish. The warnings his body gives him are subtle. Too subtle for him to listen although he knows he should. During these several years, he hits bottom once, twice, too many times to count until he suffers all the private indignity he can stand before honestly hitting a bottom so deep and impermeable death whispers on his lips. Suicide was never an option or a consideration but death was in the back of his mind lingering with each hulking bite. Death gripped his body, his mind, his soul, his heart. Death knew he would listen to her chilling voice even if would not listen to his body.
He is in no real danger of death today but death decides she must foreshadow a future he will live if he continues to live as before. His soundless scream echoes through his body as he sees the montage. Why is he slumped over a toilet naked, staring into a bowel of his own vomit and diarrhea? Sweat and blood stain the back of his pants. Did people see the stain? Did his baggy shirt hide the shame? He remembers all the people from the morning asking him if he needed water, or a break, or both. A couple of women he'd never met looked worried. Why did he wonder are strangers worried about me? He can't bear to leave his hotel room. Each step is agony. Flaring hemorrhoids plague his body with each step. He can't stand the loneliness. His actions, his alone, conspire to strand him alone in a hotel room - in a town of strangers - for several days with only death's foreshadows to nurture him.
Comforting? Not really. Compared to a lifetime of learning and realization hitting bottom is easy. Death is easy compared to moving forward. Small victories are discovered instead of the little defeats. For him, small victories are huge accomplishments. When his thoughts would turn to death, they now turn to life. Each day he tries to pull himself one step further from hell. He will not look for Virgil to guide him or anyone else. His actions, and his actions, will allow him reclaim his dignity. Six weeks and a surgery are only a beginning. A promising start for however long his journey lasts.
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