Fat Read online

  “Umm, I would get him into something with a little more cardio. He needs to get running and jumping at this point.”

  “Do you hear Dr. Grant, Xander? No more TV and video games all day. And you liked baseball when we played it at grandma’s, right? We’ll sign you up at the rec center.”

  I know those are empty words. I’ve given variations of this speech right into Kate’s face countless times, but look at Xander now. He still is a collection of rolls with his candy apple face buried in his GameBoy. She promised to get him more active after every plead, but the only activity I’ve ever seen him engage in are his thumbs flicking buttons on his video games. He needs to be transported into Super Mario World and spend his days jumping obstacles and dodging Koopa Troopa’s. She’s such a pushover with Xander. I think he might have eaten her backbone, hickory smoked until fork tender with a side of coleslaw and corn on the cob. Kate was going to graduate to full on enabler in a few years.

  “I think that’s a great plan, Kate. And if he can get back to a more normal weight soon, he’ll probably have fewer problems with those other kids, and he’ll just feel better about himself. You don’t want him to be that fat nerd whose life is only computers and fantasy games?”

  “Ha ha, I guess not Dr. Grant.”

  Xander was heading down the narrow road of fat person stereotypes towards his limited place in society. There are many niches a fat kid can fill, and being the nerd is one that is always approving applications. The computer variety seems to be perfect for a lifestyle of extended hours eating junk and sitting on ass. Or he could become an obsessed hobbyist. Gamers, fan boys, Comic-Con conventioneers – many are just groups of fat kids living out more active lives as heroes in a virtual world. They congregate to slather green all over their bodies to become out-of-shape Hulks or squeeze into plastic white armor to become lumpier Stormtroopers. There is also the fat funny guy who can change a laughing-at to a laughing-with (Belushi, Candy, Farley), but Xander’s burgeoning introvert makes me think that’s not going to be him. Plus, he’s never made me laugh with him. The lack of entertaining personality is too bad because he could have a perfect body for radio. If he was an entertaining blabber mouth with personality, he could’ve spent his days sucking back coffee and donuts seated for hours of drive time in front of a microphone. Television isn’t kind to the obese, and is pretty adept at showing contrived possibilities for fat kids to become: local cops (e.g. Sipowicz), as part of a comic fat husband/hot wife pair (e.g. King of Queens), the disgustingly crass male (e.g. Cartman), the crazily slutty female (e.g. Anna Nicole Smith), Italian mobster (e.g. Tony Soprano), lovable alcoholic (e.g. Norm Peterson) or cartoonishly inept all around (e.g. Homer Simpson). The one positive characterization for the obese is as the fat mascot, the nice kid everyone likes and keeps around as a second buddy, but who no one really wants to date – an involuntary eunuch by means of weight rather than castration. Every attractive protagonist’s best friend needs to be an unattractive, obese person to accentuate the protagonist’s comparative attractiveness, and that obese person needs an easy going personality, deep loyalty and a bag of outrageous quips to show that the protagonist can look past the superficial and befriend based on more substantive qualities. Xander’s outsides are perfect for that role. But Xander doesn’t seem like he’s going to be that great of a friend – one time I asked him for a purple Skittle and he flat out said no as he poured the rest of the bag down his throat. My guess is that he’s going to end up like Brian.

  Brian was a friend in high school, not a good friend, just a friend. He was a fat friend. One time we went to the movies as part of a larger group. I got a large popcorn and a medium Coke (which even back then looked like someone had taken two buckets and filled one with popcorn and one with soda). He got some Skittles. As we were all settling down into our seats, I offered everyone some popcorn. Popcorn and movies? No one can pass that up, especially Brian. He filled his hands with popcorn in between mouthfuls of Skittles. I love purple Skittles, so I asked if I could have one. Brian flat out said no, as he poured the rest of his bag down his throat. Come on, Brian, just one damn Skittle. It would’ve been just two calories less, just 1/50th of his supply. Yet still no. It was a quick lesson: the fat are greedy for every last calorie. I guess you don’t become fat by sharing. And selfishness makes for a bad friend. Brian is now a floor manager in a factory that makes Skittles. And not dating. And really into World of Warcraft and Hentai porn, by rumor.

  “So Kate, try to do those things I said, and come back in six months. I want to see a slimmer Xander. I have to see a slimmer Xander.”

  “I sure will try, Dr. Grant.”

  Xander finally lifts his head. “Dr. Grant, do you want to play the next game?” as he offers up the console to me.

  Kate snatches the GameBoy away. “No, Xander, we’re done now. Maybe next time. We have to go to the dentist right now.”

  “Next time for sure, little buddy. What were you playing?”

  “Super Mario. Ha, eating mushrooms makes you so big and I made him eat a lot.”

  SIX MONTHS FATTER

  I walk into the room and it smells great. Smells like fries. McDonald’s fries. Mmm. There’s just something about putting potato in hot grease that makes for good perfume. The aroma is bad for Xander, though. He’s digging into a bag of McDonald’s. He looks bigger. I look down at the vitals in today’s chart and Xander has gained another twenty pounds in six months.

  “Kate, what happened?”

  “We tried, Dr. Grant, we really did.”

  “Did you cut down on his juice and soda?” It was a rhetorical question at this point as Xander was sucking back on a super-sized Coke in the examining room.

  “He threw such a fit when I tried to take his juice away.”

  “How about his portions?”

  I don’t know why I was even asking these questions out loud. This kid was halfway done with a full quarter pounder value meal.

  “He complained he was so hungry all of the time when we tried. I don’t want to starve my child.”

  The pangs of hunger can be a friend. An inherent, relatively unpleasant signal that the fuel tank is getting low can be a good warning system to have. The biologic incentive of feeling satiety and quelling those pangs seems like it was a logical Darwinian progression to ensure maintaining the drive of food pursuit. Why risk life and limb and invest all the time to spear a wild boar if eating didn’t make you feel better? But nowadays, the pangs of hunger are mostly enemy. The hunt is now ripping open a cellophane wrapper. Hunger is not a signal to eat for survival any longer; it is just a signal to most people that it’s time for another two thousand calorie bolus to maintain this oversized fat suit. Yet, hunger is still mistaken for impending death. “Oh my god, I am starving! I better eat something before I die!” said the person looking like he just recently consumed the sum of all the calories needed to be stored in a fallout shelter for a family of four to survive a year underground. I have yet to see a three hundred pounder starve to death. A kid eats a bit less during dinner? Parents freak out and force him to clean his plate before getting any dessert. A kid skips a meal? Better rush him to the doctor and demand a full evaluation for some mystery disease. So parents keep the feedbag on their little porkers to stave off those dangerous hunger pangs. Today, death is more common from too much food rather than too little.

  “Did you get him into some cardio activities? Any sports?”

  “We tried baseball and soccer. He didn’t like it, and the coach was such a mean old guy we had to quit. We have taken him mini-golfing a couple times, though, and he loves that. It’s better than nothing, right?”

  Better than nothing? It’s the same as nothing. I imagine Xander haphazardly knocking his golf ball around with putter in one hand while nursing an ice cream cone in the other. There would be chocolate and vanilla melt around his lips, on his fingers and palms, on the putter grip, on the neon blue ball, and dripping onto the artificial turf. He bends over to grab his
ball from the hole and his pants split with a shrill staccato of popping stitches releasing painful tension. People start laughing at him. Xander starts crying. The heaving of his sobs makes his ice cream scoop fall from the cone to the fuzzy plastic green. More crying. Kate runs over and fishes a Snickers from her purse, stuffing it into Xander’s hands to try to quell the scene. He starts shrieking about his ice cream, stomping at the ground and sending ripples down his abdominal rolls. Everyone stops their own ice cream eating and putt-putting to stare, shaking their heads at Xander, which also causes their own massive bellies to ripple from side to side. Rain starts falling and the ice cream melt flows down towards the hole, circling away as if into a drain.

  “You know, Kate, there are summer camps dedicated to overweight kids. Maybe that’s what he needs, a separation from his usual routines.”

  “We tried something like that, but on the second day of fat camp, Xander fell down playing kickball and hit his head, so we had to pull him out of the program.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, he burst his forehead open! What kind of supervision is that? Xander has a real high pain tolerance so when I heard he was crying, I knew he was really hurt. I had to force them to rush Xander to the Emergency Room. When I met him there, I literally could see his skull through his cut!”

  “Well, I can’t imagine...”

  “Then the ER doc there tries to say he can close it with some glue. No way! Not for my baby’s face! I had to force the doc there to call in a plastic surgeon to repair the gushing cut. Xander had to be put under for the repair, but look at his face, it was worth it.”

  I peered over at Xander’s forehead and saw a half centimeter line of lighter skin. This was the life threatening gash? There was no way it was more than just a scrape. Kate implying severity based on Xander’s crying despite his pain tolerance was ridiculous. Every parent says their kid has a high pain tolerance, so much so that the claim has no meaning. No parent is going to admit that their kid is a babied wimp created from their constant helicoptering and persistent positive feedback from exaggerated overjoyed reactions over trivial happenings. In reality, most kids like Xander will cry murder even if a ladybug flutters onto their arm. And calling in a plastic surgeon for that little nick? A surgeon trained to reconstruct massive deformity being demanded by some mom to put a suture into a fleck of a laceration? This wound did not heal this well because of the gifted hands of the plastic surgeon; it would’ve healed just like it did even if Xander sealed it shut himself with a thumb of mud. Why not demand that the Pope come and irrigate it with fresh holy water before closure? Then maybe get Jesus to float down and seal the cut with his healing finger? It’s no wonder Xander gets all his demands filled to excess.

  “Kids get minor scrapes when they are active, it’s entirely normal and impossible to always prevent. Xander needs to get active, regardless of those minor risks. And most cuts and bruises will heal just fine and are not that big of a deal.”

  “Well, next time, we’re going to have to find a better supervised program.”

  “A small cut is not that high of a price to pay if it means Xander is getting healthier.”

  “I guess.”

  “Regardless Kate, you’ve really done nothing we talked about and it shows. Xander is up another twenty pounds.”

  “We’ll keep trying, but it’s tough.”

  “You’re his mom, you need to do this for him. I shouldn’t be caring about this more than you.”

  “I know, I know.” Kate sighed.

  Xander finished his lunch, and with a burp, tossed the McDonald’s bag into the trash. Next stop: World of warcraft and Hentai porn. This kid has got no chance. No fucking chance.

  FAT BULLY

  About once a month, I do a free sports physical clinic at a local grade school. It’s a good way to provide some physicals for kids that otherwise wouldn’t get one. And occasionally, I will see some minor urgent care stuff – strains, runny noses, rashes and such.

  On one visit to Jane Adams Elementary, as my mind started getting numb from the repetition of normal pediatric physicals, Xander was escorted into the exam room. A burly teacher had a tight grip on Xander’s right upper arm. Xander had a cut on his left hand and a zig-zagged scratch on the center of his forehead a la Harry Potter. He was almost as wide as he was tall.

  “Hey Xander, long time no see, how’s it going buddy?”

  The teacher that was escorting him just shook his head. “Not too good, he was beating up a kid again.”

  Makes sense. Xander’s been getting called “Lardass” and “Triple ex-el-Xander” for a few years now, and that’s a perfect recipe to get bitter and mean. And by the looks of him, he was just eating more junk to cope. But he must’ve also figured out that at this age, his body used that excess fuel to grow wider and taller at a quicker rate than his peers. Like how the grass where the neighborhood dogs squat their crap grows lushest. He became the biggest kid in class. Suddenly, he found another, more satisfying way to feel better: beating on kids. I wish I could’ve been there when one kid too many called Xander “Fat-fuck”, and Xander reared back and connected with the kid’s face, sending the kid flying. Like a semi-truck hitting a Prius. And a lightbulb going off that mass was strength, at least at this pre-pubertal age.

  “Let’s take a look at him.”

  Xander just had some superficial scratches and minor soft tissue swelling. More so on his knuckles. That kid he was beating on must have got lit up.

  “Anything hurt, Xander?”

  “No, not really, Dr. Grant.”

  I took his hand and started feeling around. “Not here, or here?”

  “No, not really.”

  Then this teacher chimed in, “Are you sure nothing’s broken? Because my cousin got in a fight once and he broke his hand. Never healed right because the doc missed it.”

  I’m going to ignore this guy. What did he think I was doing, not making sure it wasn’t broken? If so, the unsolicited consult from the peanut gallery will surely crack the case. I also once had a cousin that got wasted on Jim Beam and punched a clown at a circus, so maybe Xander is drunk right now? Everyone likes to play armchair doctor, thinking their secondhand medical knowledge is fact, but most need to just sit quiet in that armchair and realize they are uninformed. This is the type of guy that would Google some symptoms and read some website for an hour and then fight a doctor’s reasoned diagnosis with his own dim brainstorm by claiming he had done his research -- that is not research. Research is done by multiply degreed scientists that devote their lives to advancing knowledge meticulously; research is done by committees of scientists reviewing hundreds of studies on their scientific robustness to come to an evidence based conclusion; research is done by physicians, who were trained for over a decade to have a skeptical eye, then reviewing committee conclusions and medical journals for skepticism-quashing robustness to reach a threshold to apply evidence based recommendations to clinical practice. Scrolling a random blog for an hour is not research. Don’t read a placemat then try to convince me that it’s The New England Journal of Medicine. Don’t solve the kiddy word jumble on the placemat then claim to have cracked some far reaching scientific mystery. Knowing someone who had something at sometime for some reason is not a basis for diagnosis.

  “Xander’s all right, he’s good to go.”

  The teacher grabbed Xander’s arm, leaned closer to him and got serious. “Xander, this is your third fight this month. You’re going to be suspended for sure. And why are you beating on little Sam, he’s half your size.”

  Kids should only tremble in fear of Xander if they were shipwrecked on a food-less island and were covered in butter, not here in school where there are dozens of vending machines to pump out seemingly unlimited amounts of Doritos and Snickers for Xander to feed his sour moods. But food must’ve not been enough to fill all of Xander’s holes. “What did little Sam do to deserve such a beating?”

  The teacher gave Xander’s arm a squeeze. �
�Tell him.”

  Xander just shrugged.

  “Tell Dr. Grant that you didn’t like Sam’s cardigan with Snoopy and Woodstock on it, and how you beat him down so you could rip it off him.”

  Fat people are supposed to be jolly. Santa is Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick. The Kool-Aid Man bursts through brick walls and offers cool refreshment with a bellowing chuckle. Imagine a stereotypical cheery grandmother baking cookies; she is, in the least, generously overweight. Are fat people all just gentle souls whose become sullied by society’s harsh mocking? But then there’s Jabba the Hut. Or Rush Limbaugh. Or Tony Soprano. Turns out, jerks come in all sizes. The jerk gene does not discriminate. Fat people always spout that they want to one day have their outsides be as beautiful as their insides, as if being overweight automatically qualifies a person as being internally good with a dyssynchrony of physique and personality. It is easy to hide personality failings behind the theoretical effects of the perceived slights of others onto the voluntary elections of outward appearance, but the fact is that no one wants to admit that their outsides may be just as bloated and disfigured as their insides. Obesity could just as easily be a symptom of self-absorption, selfishness and stinginess. Hell, neither Xander nor Brian would share even one damn purple Skittle with me.