It occurs to me, a couple of months into this project, that I haven’t yet elaborated on the statement at the top of the blog. (You get to live, but you have to become fat.) I’ll rectify that now.
You wouldn't know that if you saw me today, but growing up I’d never been a particularly large guy. On the contrary, if I had grown up near a beach, I probably would have been that scrawny kid getting sand kicked in his face. My height topped out at around 5-foot-7 with a smallish-medium body, so while I wasn’t a rail, I wasn’t particularly muscular either.
I gained some muscle in the army, and was a healthy 140-ish pounds in college, but my last year of school was also the last year of my short-lived marriage. Not taking care of myself and what was likely a case of clinical depression dropped my weight to as low as 128, when I cinched my belt and felt it couldn’t go any tighter because of my hip bones. Kathy* (now my ex) even insisted I get an AIDS test.
After the collapse of the marriage and change of home and companion, I recovered to a more normal weight. My job kept me fairly active, and I’ve never been into heavy snacking.
15 YEARS AGO, that all changed.
After diagnosis, and as they start treatment, the doctors advised me of the various side-effects. One, however, they did not warn me of: Rather than wasting away like many cancer patients, I was going to get a lot bigger.
And I was actually happy when the oncologist ordered me not to lose weight. No dieting for me (at least on cheese week), thanks, doctor’s orders! More pie? Don’t mind if I do.
Seems that if your weight stays the same or goes down, it’s a sign the treatment isn’t working. But if you’re being cured, you gain. Thus, the oncologist was quite happy that I progressed toward tipping the scales at 200 pounds. Yes, my weight went up 70 pounds in two years! And over the next decade it crept up so that for several years now I tip the scales at 250.
It could be said that surviving cancer changes a person, but I hadn’t expected this.
TODAY, I deal with finding XL and 2XL clothes, treating sleep apnea, and the endless disappointment of promising myself to “do something” about my weight but never quite getting around to it.
16 YEARS AGO: Can’t say I wasn’t warned, though. Back before I was diagnosed, Gwen showed me a video of the movie “Don’t Tell Her It’s Me,” a forgettable 1990 romantic comedy starring Shelley Long and Steve Guttenberg, who plays a Hodgkins survivor. The movie opens with Guttenberg’s character undergoing treatment and chubbing up, thanks to makeup and latex foam. Then Long, playing his sister who happens to be a romance writer, persuades him to come out of his shell (almost literally, eww) to woo Jami Gertz. Then, over a single lovely training montage, the fat suit peels off to reveal our handsome hero.
Wish I could do something like that. Heck, if it would make it happen, I’d even agree to do a Police Academy sequel.
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*Not her real name.
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seems like a small price to pay for life.
ReplyDeleteWhen I read the title, I thought that it was referring to there being more of you to love because of the non-physical changes that you made coming through this experience. As a reader of your blog, that also seems true.
ReplyDeleteThanks for posting.