So I am the fattest fatty who ever lived in Fat Town, a very nice place where chicken comes in buckets, and hot, fresh lard spills from the fountain in the middle of town, where all the plorkers come to frolic naked in the breeze, lubing their folds and lolling fleshily in the chocolate flowered lawn. I have medical proof. Of my fatness, not of Fat Town. Archaeologists have not yet uncovered Fat Town.
I went to the doctor, a couple of days ago, because I have been feeling sluggish and miserable and generally wretched. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried to explain to the nurse who is making your appointment that you want to see the doctor about being fat – because that is what I was sure my problem was. Is. Hello, I’m fat. Is this true? I am not sure what I wanted from my doctor. Confirmation? The mirror is kind of my confessional, there. The scale, too. But it was starting to scare me, the way I could feel like I wasn’t eating excessively, outrageously, disgustingly, but that I continue to gain weight at a pace I’ve never done before.
I went in to get diagnosed as fat, but I was looking for a cause. My thyroid? Bad juju? Someone with a voodoo doll and a stick of butter? Something was going on, I thought. I kind of hoped. Though I had a feeling that maybe it was me – because isn’t that the way you always feel? Like no matter what, it’s your fault, and it’s going to always be your fault. In a way that is true. Your body is your responsibility. But I couldn’t tell where my responsibility was going awry.
She took blood, and checked my blood pressure and looked concerned. No doctor has ever been before concerned about my blood pressure – I have always been a remarkably healthy fat person. But it’s gone up. And we talked about my fatigue, and she said she didn’t want to make any guesses until she got my bloodwork back, but she laid out some options for me.
She said she could tell I was mentally and physically exhausted, that it was taking a toll on me, and that she had some ideas. We talked about weight watchers and Atkins, and we talked about South Beach. We talked about lap band surgery and bariatric surgery, and medical fasts, and I cried, a little bit, and she was very kind.
I don’t want surgery, but god, the idea of it is kind of a thrill. All your problems gone with a little intestinal twister, or the throttling of your stomach. Boom, thirty pounds gone in a week.
I told her I was tired of food, and we talked about Optifast and she said, maybe, that she could prescribe it for me, maybe it could get covered by insurance. A liquid diet to get me out of the scary sluggish zone, for a couple of months, maybe. Knock me out of this terrible feeling quickly, and get me back to where I feel like I can breathe and move again. It would be a struggle, shifting from the diet and back into food, but the transition, if I was careful, wouldn’t be so bad, if I was lifting weights, in an exercise habit.
I’m thinking about it. God, the idea of leaving this weight behind, and fast, breaking into a run, so to speak, is a tempting one. I am tired of food, and worrying about food, and being scared that everything I put in my mouth is going to doom me in some way.
I am also thinking about the idea of not being able to eat for a month or two, not being able to drink anything but shakes that probably taste like living doom (though the doctor tells me they’re actually quite tasty) and having to go to the doctor every week, spending the money, starving myself a little, being miserable. Finding message boards full of people talking about how they drank all their shakes and only had a little tiny bit of ham and also a pie for dinner, why aren’t they loosing wate????? – the idea is kind of depressing and miserable in a spiritual way.
But then, I’m miserable now. Food doesn’t bring me any kind of joy, any more. Being hungry sounds like a better deal than being fat. I’m thinking about it.
We’ll see what the results of my blood test say. Maybe I am excitingly thyroidic and a pill will solve everything. Maybe I have a rare and elusive fat disease that can be cured by the application of hot compresses and a special herbal tea. Maybe I will wake up one morning and my fat will have leaked out of me via a small puncture wound in my thigh, and it is a little gross to be lying in a bed full of a hundred pounds of grease, but don’t I look fucking hot? Maybe I will wake up and find out I’m a supermodel having a nightmare. In the mean time, I am thinking about it.
