Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul (6 page)

So, starting at an age younger than I can remember now, I began my own mantra. A handful of words that represented a respite from the unfairness of our privation. For every gift-laden store window, every school trip that left without me, every trip to the secondhand store, I repeated these words: “When I grow up, I will have whatever I want.” This was the magic spell. The hope of things unseen that helped me survive on potatoes, cheese and two-dollar tennis shoes from Kmart. “Whatever I want.”

Twenty years have passed since I became able to work and earn my own money and provide things for both myself and my loved ones that we hadn’t had for so long. What greater joy than to walk into the burger restaurant and order one . . . no, TWO . . . of the biggest burgers they had, as well as the largest french fries and the super-sized drink. To look at the menu and present myself with “whatever I want.” No one could tell me we didn’t have the money; why, I could pull the bills right from my own wallet and order everything on the menu (and sometimes it seems that I tried).

What greater proof that the days of want and lack were gone forever—to banish that fear and self-loathing—than to swagger down the junk food aisle and grab all the jumbo bags of chips, all the Oreo cookies (and not the cheap, stale knock-offs) that I wanted and toss them into the cart? Big, colorful bottles of Coke were far more satisfying than ten-for-a-dollar packages of generic Kool-aid. Delivery pizza was expensive. Poor people couldn’t afford to have an extra large with everything on it brought to their door, right? Therefore every call to Dominoes reinforced the proof that I could have whatever I wanted. And every extra burger, every ice cream cone, every jumbo bag of chips was a time machine that whispered comfort back over the years to a little boy sitting at a worn Formica table with nothing on his plate but a baked potato.

Every dollar spent, every mouthful of food was a silent cry that I would not spend the rest of my life as it had started out, in poverty and want. Deep in my mind, in my heart, did I think I was doing it for him? Did I really believe that every overindulgence on the part of the teenage me, and later the young-adult me, could somehow justify the faith that a little-boy me had placed in his helplessly frustrated mantra? You bet I did. You see, I owed it to him. The only way to justify his lack was in my own abundance. The greater my excess, the less he haunted my dreams. And it had to be reproven every day, every hour, every time the opportunity arose to either deny myself (We don’t have the money for . . .) or to slake my hunger, thirst and desire (whatever I want).

I was thirty-five years old and growing rapidly toward 400 pounds before a stronger, more insistent voice finally drowned out the mantra. This voice was the fear of death. Within three months I had been diagnosed with diabetes, high blood pressure and a cholesterol level so high that it couldn’t be charted. I could barely cross the room without losing my breath. At home I had a wonderful, loving wife who cared for and supported me, a church full of people who I loved and who loved me, and the first steps taken toward my dream of being a novelist. The only thing that stood in the way of being a healthy, happy, successful man was a little boy in a dingy apartment kitchen repeating over and over, “Whatever I want. . . .”

And by some miracle, by the earnest prayers of my loved ones, I finally listened to a new voice. Another year has passed since then and I’m now several weeks out from my Roux en-Y (RNY) surgery. Forty-five pounds have disappeared since the operation, as well as forty before, and another pound follows almost daily. But I still hear the continuous calling from the pantry and refrigerator, and the whispers as I drive past the seemingly innumerable fast-food joints between my work and home.

So I must remember whose voice it is that I’m hearing. Food has no voice, I remind myself; it is deaf, dumb and dead, a collection of elements and nutrients that cannot act on me unless I act on them first. No, food does not call to me. I call to me—a younger, lesser version of myself who only understands that he is being told, once again, what he cannot have. I struggle to teach him a new mantra, as I struggle to justify his deprivation: “When I grow up, I will have whatever I need.” And after all these years I begin to realize that maybe that is what he really meant.

Perry P. Perkins

Finally, Success—A New Me!

T
he secret of health for both mind and body is
not to mourn for the past, worry about the
future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the
present moment wisely and earnestly.

Buddha

No one except my doctor really knew how much I weighed. Every time I had to renew my driver’s license and was asked if anything had changed, I said “No” and wondered if I could go to jail for lying to the secretary of state. Now, for the first time since I was about thirty, I’m legal.

I used to claim my excess weight was postpregnancy weight, but since I’m now sixty-one with sons thirty-five and thirty-six and actually gained only twelve pounds with each pregnancy, it seems a bit ridiculous.

I’ve gone to Weight Watchers, TOPS and other weight-loss groups. I succumbed to everymagazine at the checkout counters that promised to share the secret of losing weight. I used incentives, like “the class reunion is coming up, I need to lose forty pounds in two weeks.”

Having been in the healthcare field, I knew how to eat properly and be healthy. I knew all the dangers of being overweight. But only when the scare of things that “could” go wrong actually became a reality did I wake up and smell the Columbian brew.

Each time I had a physical and passed (and I’m an overachiever, so I’m used to passing tests), I said a prayer of thanks and promised God I would give him a hand and help out in the being healthy department. I guess he got tired of listening to that tune because one day he threw me a real curveball.

My blood sugar was a little elevated, so my doctor ordered a glucose tolerance test. I’ll be darned if I didn’t flunk a test! She said, “Well, you didn’t stop at pre-diabetes —you’re diabetic.” The date was November 15, 2004.

I went home totally scared to death, angry and positive that any good quality of my life was indeed over. I read the booklets my doctor had given me, went to the pharmacy and purchased the little blood test meter. My husband took me out to dinner, where I ate like Miss Piggy on the way to the bacon factory.

I began counting carbs and testing the next day. Maybe because I hate math, I hate to count anything—calories, carbs, fat grams—losing ten pounds seemed like such a huge task. But I was determined. Not determined halfway, like before when I’d lose five pounds and gain them right back, but really determined.

Even before my consultation with the dietician at the diabetes clinic, I’d lost seven pounds. By the first of the year, I’d lost seventeen pounds—OVER THE HOLIDAYS! My blood sugar dropped immediately with the slightest weight loss.

When I realized counting carbs was easier than I thought, it became a way of life. I knew what I could eat. I ate three meals a day with three small snacks in between if I wanted, which usually I didn’t. I expected the dietician to give me a whole list of foods I could never eat again. He didn’t. It was all about portion control. What a concept! Of course, I already knew that half a box of spaghetti wasn’t really a serving. But, come on, two ounces of pasta! Show me someone content with that and I’ll show you a fuzzy little rodent in a cage with an exercise wheel. But, guess what? I am content with that.

I enjoy my food now more than ever because I’m busy tasting and enjoying it and not just shoveling it in. When asked my secret, I say, “I’m eating for one, not for Sandi and a third world country.”

I was still fat on my sixtieth birthday. The number stuck in my throat. I couldn’t even say it. Now, as I approach sixty-two this summer, I can say it with ease because I don’t look or feel my age. As I listen to talk of diets and weight struggles, I’m amazed at how truly easy it ultimately was.

So, that’s the end of my story, my fat story that is. This is the beginning of the NEW me story and my new healthy life. I wear a size 6 jeans—real zip-up jeans now, not elastic-waist-fat-girl jeans. I work out at the health club three times a week (I started out at five to six times a week). I walk two miles and work out on the weight machines. I go to yoga classes. I eat what I want to— portion control. I’ve lost sixty pounds and feel twenty years younger. I have unlimited energy, and most important, my blood sugar is totally normal even when I go a little higher on the carbs once in a while.

I am healthy, energetic and happy. My doctor has changed my diagnosis, and she smiled when I said, “At my age, I want to be healthy and feel good. Looking good is the bonus.”

Sandra L. Tatara

The Mirror Doesn’t Lie

K
eep the faculty of effort alive in you by a little
gratuitous exercise every day.

William James

I was in the mall the other day, rushing to get errands done and pausing just for a second to shift packages from one arm to the other. For a fleeting moment, I got that feeling women are apt to get—a sense of being stared at, that a set of discerning eyes was looking and passing judgment. I shrugged the feeling off and continued on my way. When you’re fifty-something and have looked fairly dowdy most of your adult life—not just in an encroaching golden age—you get used to the looks, or lack of them. When you’re carrying more than a few extra pounds, you can find yourself teetering on a tightrope between people staring or drowning in a sea of invisibility.

Strangers pass judgmentwhen you’re obese. Itmay be as overt as a pointed finger or thoughtless laugh, or as subtle as pretending you don’t exist. I remembered back. . . .

“Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?” There certainly was. The clerk was my age, a handsome man with wavy black hair and solid, angular features. I’d been patiently trying to get his attention for some help with a wallet I was selecting for a Christmas present.

It was near dinnertime, and the shop was pleasantly near-empty. The only shoppers were me: short, solid and rather hefty; and a girl my age then—perhaps twenty— with perfect flowing hair, perfect hands, chiseled legs and a body with the flesh secured firmly to the bone. She was lovely, and the clerk was smitten.

For what seemed like forever, I thumbed through wallets—now and then lifting my head with a smile, trying to make eye contact, to get his attention. It wasn’t happening. Only when the “normal” girl was gone did he realize I needed his help.

And then he called me “ma’am.” It was the first time that ever happened to me. When I left the shop and got to the safe place inside my car, where the windows steamed in the winter night, hot, embarrassed tears stung my cheeks.

And yet I did nothing about it. Except to maybe eat some more and gain an increasing amount of weight.

Decades passed, and layers and layers of fat enfolded me. I was far beyond even “ma’am” now. I was nearly asexual. I made fewer and fewer trips to shops—to public places in general. I was no longer hefty. I was huge. Walking around the block caught me out of breath and sent my knees into agonizing aches and spasms.

I knew if it kept on, I was going to die. A real, tangible, physical death. For a while, even with that reality in place, I shrugged off my destiny. It had been years since I looked into a mirror. People had stopped looking at me years ago, and I’d given it up for myself as well.

It was a dark, dark place.

I know exactly when the light came on. It was about a year ago, when sleeping at night was now no longer an option. Every time I lay down, it was difficult to breathe. Day and night, I walked the floors, exhausted, and now, finally, thoroughly afraid.

And then, it happened. In one on-a-whim, entirely outof-character moment, I ventured out into a public place for the first time in a very long time—to the animal shelter. That’s where Max found me. He was so very small for a shepherd/golden mix, and so very sick. I saw his face and forgot about my knees.

Max had no time for excuses. He needed medication every few hours, and because of the medicine, he needed more walks than a “normal” puppy. Because he also came with allergies, he needed to eat natural and healthy food And so, on another fine day, I found myself in the produce department instead of the ice cream aisle.

He grew strong and began to thrive, and so did I. More than a year passed, and I was down ten sizes. Max was home, I was sure, comfortably snoozing on the couch where he wasn’t supposed to be, and I was at the mall, running errands and thinking about my past.

The shopping bags needed to be shifted, and again I stopped. Once more I felt the sensation that a pair of eyes was watching. This time, I held my head up and looked back.

What I saw jolted me. It was a woman, just about my age, short but easy on the eye, tanned and fit. I smiled, and she was smiling back.

I had stopped in front of a full-length mirror.

These days, the anguish is gone, along with the self-loathing and embarrassment, and I no longer fear my own reflection. Max has no problem looking into my eyes. Why, then, should I?

Candy Killion

Ricotta-Stuffed Bell Peppers

M
AKES
4
SERVINGS
E
ACH SERVING:
24
GRAMS PROTEIN,
11
GRAMS CARBOHYDRATE