The Weight to be Me

I’ve been crushing on Jeff Reynolds since second grade – with his shaggy hair, big brown eyes, and a fashion sense that rivals Bobby Brady. He’s so cute with his brown corduroy bell-bottoms, orange and yellow striped t-shirt, and his low-top black Chucks.

It’s our first day of 4^th grade, and class is almost over, so our teacher has us line up quietly in front of the door as we wait for the bell to ring for recess. Then out of nowhere Jeff loudly says “Dang!! Mia got FAT over the summer!” Everyone starts laughing while I turn ten shades of red and feel my heart sink to the floor. I have no comeback. What am I going to do but laugh it off? Yep. I’ll just file it away and store it in my mind with every other slight, insult, or comment I’ve ever received about my body.

I’ve always been aware, or somewhat concerned about my weight and appearance – at home, and amongst my friends. My complicated relationship to food started when I was just a little nugget.

Food isn’t just nourishment or fuel. It’s both love and punishment. Mom’s a great cook and tries to make us food that’s healthy and tastes good, and she won’t buy or bring any tempting foods into the house. But despite her best efforts, both her and my dad have ongoing struggles with being overweight. By the time I come along, the youngest of their six kids, they are both in their 40’s, and morbidly obese – it’s an endless cycle of yo-yo diets in our house.

I’m a daddy’s girl – and from the time I was a toddler, he’s affectionately called me his “Lil’ Chubbalina,” or “Chubbabuttski.” But as I get older, it embarrasses me when he calls me that in front of my friends. I adore my father, so I internalize the discomfort, and don’t let on that it bothers me.

My mother can’t keep from showing her growing concern about my body and regularly makes not so subtle observations like “you really are such a pretty girl, if it weren’t for those thunder thighs.” And I am always on the receiving end of her “helpful” critiques, tips, and judgements about anything I eat in her presence.

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In first grade, every morning before going to school, I’d go to the kitchen and plug in the coffee pot to get their coffee going, then grab two hypodermic needles and a little vial of liquid Phentermine out of the refrigerator and bring it to them while they were still in bed. They’d each put a shot of this liquid into their butt cheeks before I’d kiss them both goodbye and walk myself to school. It’s the latest thing that’s supposed to help them decrease their appetite.

That’s pretty heady stuff for a kid, but witnessing my parents do strange things to lose weight is something I’ve gotten used to. They used the liquid speed that their doctor prescribed – before it got deemed dangerous and taken off the market. But what they don’t seem to realize is that their constant focus on dieting and weight loss is being passed on to me with every new fad and craze. 

The junkiest food that you’ll find in our kitchen cupboards is Top Ramen – and that’s only so this latch-key kid can make herself an easy snack after school. My concoction is to pour the water out when the noodles are done and add the salty, MSG-filled packet and a bunch of butter to it, then sit myself down and zone out on whatever bad afternoon TV is on. Comfort food at it’s finest.

Our fridge and pantry are filled with healthy, boring foods. Like generic brand corn flakes – not a CoCo Puff or Lucky Charm in sight. If you dig hard enough, you might find an Italian fig, or maybe the occasional Triscuit in the cabinet, but you’ll never see Oreos, Fritos, or ice cream. Plain saltines are about as good a crunchy snack that she’ll bring into the house. She figures if it’s not available, we won’t eat it. Problem solved.

I drive my mother crazy when I rifle through the cupboards or stand in front of the fridge looking for something to eat. She’ll yell at me from the living room “What are you doing? What are you getting into? Do NOT open that cheese!” She wants full control of what goes on in her kitchen. 

As much as she tries to invoke discipline with what she and the rest of us are all eating, whenever I poke around in her handbag to steal some of her spare change, she always has a Hershey with Almonds or a Heath candy bar tucked into the bottom of her purse – which I don’t dare touch, as those are her treats. Her secret stash. It’s definitely not for my sticky, sugar-craving fingers.

Everybody calls my dad “Tiny” – well…because…he isn’t. Before I was born, his weight fluctuated quite a bit, even tipping the scales at over 300 pounds on more than one occasion. But his excessive weight gain is not because of my mother’s good Italian cooking – it’s his penchant for regularly sneaking fast food, Snicker’s, and Baskin & Robbins when she isn’t looking. And, that every night before bed, he has to eat a big bowl of cereal, regardless of how delicious and filling dinner was. 

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In addition to the several diet programs that work their way through my parent’s lives, neither one of them has ever been active or into any type of regular fitness routine. Then one day my dad brings home this strange piece of exercise equipment that looks like an oddly shaped metal and vinyl hammock. He grins and says it’s his new “Slim Gym – The Wonder Lounge Exerciser!” On the box, this new device promises that “men can lose a belt notch in just two weeks!” Oh daddy.

I only witness dad doing a few awkward bends on his new, weird fitness gadget, before the “lounge” aspect of the device wins out, and he ends up napping in it more than using it for exercise. 

Dad has enrolled me into his unhealthy and secretive pattern of food addiction. Mom works weekdays in a flower shop, and he works nights as a musician, so there are times when I get home from school and before he leaves for work, we have a few hours together, just the two of us. He’ll give me money to go down to the little corner store a block away from our apartment, to get us a quart of ice cream, which he’ll cut in half, and we’ll sit together eating right out of our containers while we watch our favorite line-up of daytime talk shows – Mike Douglas, Dinah Shore, and Merv Griffin.

We’re eating buddies. The only caveat is that I can’t tell mom. It’s our secret. He’ll have me take all the empty wrappers and evidence down to the big dumpster in the alley behind our apartment building before my mom gets home from work. 

When not eating and watching TV after school, sometimes he’ll take me for a drive around the neighborhood and we’ll go to Dick’s Drive-In or Herfy’s for cheeseburgers, fries, and milkshakes. It’s our private ritual – and I love it, not only because it’s time with my dad, but because it involves one of our all-time favorite things to do together…eating junk food. 

Our afternoon binges are a growing cause of concern for my mom – not only because of the obvious weight gain, but also for the mood swings and lethargy from all the sugar we’re constantly ingesting. But her nagging doesn’t slow us down – until just around my 10^th birthday when my dad has his first massive heart attack.

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I love snuggling up in my parent’s bedroom in their California King bed under their electric blanket to watch the little black & white TV they have on their bed stand. I’m watching my favorite show “Family” with my girl Kristy McNichol, when my mom bursts into the room “Get up! Get dressed! We have to get to the hospital! Your dad’s had a heart attack!”

On the ride to the hospital I am filled with dread that he’s going to die and I can’t get my emotions under control. When we enter the hospital room, my daddy is so pale that he looks light grey, and there are so many wires and pads stuck all over his chest and arms it looks like he’s part of some strange lab experiment. I have no frame of reference for what I am seeing. He’s hooked up to oxygen and his chest is rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are closed and appears to be unaware that we are in the room.

Fear hits a little kid with a unique blast to an innocent and still developing nervous system. It’s my first time experiencing this kind of anxiety. I have no idea what to do with all my sadness. I want to touch him, hug him, tell him everything is going to be alright. But I’m too scared to move. So I stand there quietly, as my mom tries to gather more information on his condition, and when or if he’ll be coming home. I want to know how? Why? And what happens now? I have more questions than there are answers.

When he comes home from the hospital, his weakened health is a major game changer. Our kitchen and refrigerator contents would make good old Dr. Pritikin proud. Skim, or as I call it “blue” milk is all mom will allow. All things with salt, gone. No butter, no cheese. And the only cereal she’ll buy are those big shredded wheat bricks. It’s all lean meats, fruits, and vegetables from here on out.  There’s no flavor left in the house. We’re all on a bland diet.

Dad is frail as he tries to adapt to his new normal – needing an oxygen tank, the constant need for antacids, and his intake of “77 beans a day” (his term for all the pills he had to take).” And one of the most daunting symptoms of congestive heart failure – is his depression. Mostly because he lost his best friend – all his favorite, and now off-limits foods.

The changes impact all of us. Mom decides to start taking me with her to her weekly “obesity classes” that are held at a local hospital. It’s me, mom, and several other women her age, sitting in a circle, while a young, skinny, energetic nutritionist, teaches us about avoiding forbidden foods, counting calories, writing down everything we eat, and giving us lots of useful tips on how to shop “outside the aisles” in the grocery store.

Mom wants me to help set a good example with my dad, but she also thinks it will prepare me for what is inevitably going to be something I’ll have to contend with for the rest of my life. She is terrified I’ll end up like her and my dad in a constant battle with the bulge – it’s always been their biggest struggle, and the reality is that it nearly killed him at the age of 49. 

Making all the changes necessary to make sure my dad gets well is a challenge for all of us. He hasn’t been the same since he got home. I miss my happy dad, my funny dad, the one I shared ice cream cones with. He’s still alive, but some of my favorite parts of my dad are all but gone. The light has gone out in his spirit. He’s mad that he never feels good, and resents that he can’t eat like he used to. He mopes around the house a lot and says things like “I wish I’d just drop dead and get it over with.”  

And I’m on board. Doing the best I can to be a good sport. But it’s kind of a lot for a ten-year-old. Just sayin.