367.5 pounds. 400 pounds. 525 pounds. That was the last time I was actually weighed and the last time I went to the doctor — any doctor for that matter. My doctor told me that I needed to lose weight and I needed to start right away. That was two years ago.
Two years ago I could get around — with some degree of difficulty, but I could still get around nonetheless. Today, I can barely get out of bed and go to the bathroom let alone stand to shower. And truth be told I barely fit in the shower.
I can feel the fat within my body crushing me. Crushing my bones. Crushing my heart. Crushing my lungs. Crushing every organ. I feel the fat around my neck and face and know that it won’t be long before that fat cuts off my airways and I won’t be able to breathe. I know that soon this fat will kill me, but I don’t know what to do.
My husband loves me, I know this because if he didn’t he would have left me long ago. I wasn’t a particularly small girl when my husband and I met 10 years ago. I was probably somewhere around 225 pounds. Then with our first child I gained close to 150 pounds, which never really came off. And after Stan was born my weight kept climbing.
I went on a crash diet, but I only gained weight. I did a cabbage diet. That made me gaseous, but regular. I didn’t lose any weight from that either. I did the Atkins diet. That didn’t work. I sent my husband to the grocery store to buy healthy foods we could prepare at home, but I found myself sending him back out to some fast food restaurant a couple of hours later because I was hungry.
Then one day I heard Stan call out, “Mommy!”
I could tell he was in distress.
“Mommy! Mommy!” he yelled out “Mommy come help me please! Mommy!”
I tried to get out of bed, but I couldn’t. I rocked myself back and forth on the bed and was finally able to roll myself on the floor. I crawled over to the window and pulled myself up and that’s where I saw Stan. He was lying on the ground, twisted and contorted. He was crying and still calling me, “Mommy! Where are you, Mommy?”
I tried to get to him but couldn’t. Every time I took a step my legs gave way beneath me and I fell. Both Stan and I lay on the ground — him outside underneath the big oak tree and me inside. Inside the prison of my body. The body I created. The body that won’t let me help my son. I don’t know how long we laid there, but I knew right then and there I had to do something about this. If not for me then for Stan.
Joe, my husband, came home and called 9-1-1 for Stan and me. The paramedics rushed Stan to the local children’s hospital and they had to bring in a crane for me and take me to the hospital in a special ambulance.
That day I weighed in at 989.2 pounds. That day I accepted the opportunity to save my life and become the mother Stan had never known. That day changed my life.
This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Fran who gave me this prompt: “You try, try, and try, but nothing seems to go right. Finally when you’re ready to give up. . .” I challenged Supermaren with the prompt “Write about five things you would do to entertain yourself if you didn’t see a soul for seven days. Could be fiction or nonfiction.”