Page 14 of The Husband Diet
‘OK,’ I sniffed, drying my eyes for good this time. Enough tears for one day.
But then, eight hours later, as I donned a horrid hospital nightie, the kind that leaves your ass bare and cold, I wasn’t so sure again. What would happen if I called the whole thing off? Did I really need to go through with something so big? Or would I rather stay this big?
I could walk away right now if I wanted. I wasn’t shackled to an operating table yet. The choice was mine. But because I was free to make my own decision, I knew that if I really did chicken out now, tomorrow I’d be in the same situation as Paul had said – hating my body, struggling to tie my shoelaces (although I actually bought slip-ons to make my life easier) and panting to keep up with my sporty children.
Now, I had the opportunity to change all that in a snip. I’d spent days running tests: heart rate, blood, breathing patterns and everything else. Shrinks had made sure I wouldn’t freak out at not seeing Angelina Jolie in the mirror (which was never going to happen anyway, I was aware) and that I understood the weight loss would take months, etcetera.
Just before my op, Paul came in to sit with me. He saw my family (led by Marcy, for once) come, deposit kisses on my forehead and go. ‘Too choked up,’ Paul explained lamely, about me getting sliced to pieces, to stay a little longer on such an important day.
‘You’re still here,’ I countered.
‘Don’t kid yourself. I’m only here for the drama,’ he winked, and at that moment I knew Paul, who was as gay as they make ’em, was more man than any other in my life.
Looking into Ira’s eyes, on the other hand, I saw myself the way I never had and never cared to. I saw a fat, ugly, pathetic woman willing to go under the knife to keep her husband.
They came for me twenty minutes later.
‘Here’s for drama,’ I squeaked, and Paul squeezed my hand – real hard – and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before they wheeled me away.
‘I’ll be waiting here. See you later, sunshine.’
I was left in a room all by myself, staring up at the Styrofoam square ceiling panels with no one but the ghosts in my past and the demons of my present. Being dumped there like a slab of raw meat was enough to make me want to jump and run for the emergency exit stark naked (who cared if anyone died of shock or exposure to my blubber?). Also, I couldn’t take my mind off Madeleine and Warren. What would happen to them if I croaked on this very table in the next few hours? Ira couldn’t cook to save himself, and as far as keeping a household running, forget it. They’d have social services round by the end of the week.
I choked on a lump in my throat and coughed. Who was going to get them ready for school and ferry them back and forth? My mom? Can you imagine Marcy, lumbered with two kids? Thank God indeed for my aunts and Paul.
And now, lying on my back, ready to be diced, there was a distinct, blood-chilling possibility that I wouldn’t wake up from the op. Did I really want to be skinny that badly? Hell, yes. I knew that now. I was tired of fighting. I wanted the easy way out now, please. I needed a sign that everything would be OK after this. That there could and would be a new me. And out of nowhere, silly, irrational tears began to trickle from my eyes and sideways into my ears, cold and abundant.
A beeping sound made me jump. Was it my heart monitor indicating something? Maybe an oncoming massive heart attack that would prevent me from going ahead with it… I turned over in the bed, careful not to dislodge the patches above and under my breasts, and touched a solid rectangular object under my sheet. A cellphone? I pulled it out from under the covers and looked at it, frowning. It was Ira’s. He must have dropped it when he bent over to kiss me and now he was texting me to tell me he was coming back for it. Ira couldn’t live without his cellphone.
I pushed the button and squinted at the tiny wording:
I’ll be waiting for you – stilettos and no panties, sexy boy!
I gasped. Sexy boy? My monitor flatlined for a second, then went berserk as I absorbed the words.Sexy boy? Was it just a friend goofing around, maybe? My heart pounding out of control, I quickly texted back:
And what exactly do you want me to do to you, pussycat?
The answer was almost immediate:
Whatever you want. I’m horny.
A lover! Another woman! No wonder he wasn’t interested in sex with me, the bastard! It had nothing to do with me being big, or my teeth-grinding or even talking in my sleep! And I was going to have an operation to try and win him back?
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d ripped off my patches and wound the bed sheets around my naked body, almost knocking over the nurse who had come in to prepare me for the surgical banquet. They’d have a long wait, those butchers.
‘Mrs. Lowenstein! What are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry!’ I cried and swiped at my tears as, barefoot, I burst through the doors and down an endless corridor to where Paul was waiting. A myriad of doctors, nurses, interns and patients all turned to stare at the quasi-naked five-foot-ten mountain of flesh blazing a trail past them, followed by a tiny nurse wielding a mask.
Paul looked up from his magazine, his eyes round. ‘Erica…?’
‘You wanted drama!’ I yelled as I darted past him.
‘What?’ he called after me.
‘Just run!’ I cried behind my shoulder, scooping up the bed sheets around me, dodging stretchers, wheelchairs and crash carts as Paul, juggling my overnight bag and handbag, caught up.
I hadn’t run this fast since I chased my school crush, Tony Esposito, down a back lane to see who he was secretly going out with.
