I’ve been gaining weight recently, and it’s killing me. Since last fall, I’ve added almost 15 pounds, and the scale keeps going up. For a guy who’s won praise over the past few years for dropping nearly 80 pounds, this feels like a huge betrayal by my body. Didn’t it get the update? We’re skinny-fat now! Not fat-fat! We don’t balloon up every year, because we go for long walks, and we’ve decided to be different.
Apparently eating raspberry jelly sticks, chocolate-covered cherries, and Super Stuffed strawberry Pop-Tarts every night between 10 and midnight (not on the same night! gah!) will lead to weight gain. Who knew?!
My clothes still fit, for now, but I know what’s coming if I don’t turn this thing around.
My lovely cardiologist, Dr. DiBianco, tall and thin and gray, enters the exam room. The nurse has already weighed me, taken my blood pressure, and administered the routine electrocardiogram.
“Hey big guy. I can’t believe it’s been another year. How are you feeling?”
I tell him all my latest news. While I talk, he pulls out the chair in front of the little table in the room and sits next to me.
Then he takes the clicky pen from his shirt pocket and starts to draw on the top page of the stack of papers with my name on them that he brought into the room with him. A line of blue ink, going up and up and up.
“Chris, I see that you’ve gained 20 pounds since we last met. As you can see in this line graph, at the current rate of increase, you’ll be back to your old weight in just 2 years. What can we do to prevent that?”
“I’m just so disappointed in myself. I thought I had this thing nailed, but it turns out I’m still me, still fat and getting fatter. I exercise a lot, but it’s not enough, because I eat more than I should. Usually at night, usually sweets. I can’t seem to stop.”
Dr. DiBianco looks at me and says, “You had success counting your food intake with an app on your phone. Are you still doing that?”
“Yes, but not consistently, because I get so depressed by all the red when I go over my calorie budget.”
“Perhaps you need to try something new, something you haven’t tried already. Some of my patients seem to benefit from in-person Weight Watchers meetings, where they can be held accountable and share their struggles with other people on the same journey. Would you be willing to try that?”
I vomit profusely all over his red tie and crisp blue shirt.
Ok that’s not what happens.
“Dr. DiBianco, I don’t want to join Weight Watchers. I tried it a long time ago and it’s not for me. I’m not a joiner. I’m a loner. I know that about myself. I don’t want a diet buddy, or a walking companion, or anyone else involved in this very private thing.”
“I understand, Chris. I do. My wife, who I know I’ve told you about before, had a similar attitude, and she was able to use that app you mentioned to get to where she wanted to be, without a weight-loss group. So I know you can do it.”
“Thanks for your support. I told you last time that I feel accountable to you, and thinking of how happy you’d be to see my weight loss was one motivator that kept me on track.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’ll plan to continue using the calorie counting app, and sticking with it. I know that if I make a commitment to track everything, even when I’m in the red, that’ll help.”
“All right, then. Let me make copies of these papers for you, and we’ll get you set up for your appointment next year. All the best to you, and keep at it.”
This wiry man nearing his eighties slowly rises and looms over me. How tall is he exactly: six-two, six-four? He gives me his hand to shake and I do.
As I walk down the hallway to the checkout desk, I trail behind him. I tell myself this is not what I want. This can’t be my life. Next year, I can’t watch him draw another rising line. I know that all the resolve in the world in this moment cannot guarantee that I’ll make the right choice tonight, or tomorrow night, or every night for the rest of my life. Life happens every day, every moment, and we have to be present and strong at each instance. We never get to set it and forget it.
I nearly bump into the doctor as we reach the checkout desk. He turns around and offers his hand again.
“See you next year, big guy. A little less of you maybe.”
I laugh, shake his hand, and watch him head off to make my copies.
