Published: June 14th 2019, 10:35:57 am
“I-I ...c-can’t breathe…!” I gasp.
There’s too much fat on my chest. The heavy weight is crushing my lungs, preventing them from fully expanding. I’m dizzy because there isn’t enough oxygen getting to my brain.
There’s also just too much fat on my belly. The mountain of lard that is my body spills over the broken queen-sized bed, rendering me completely immobile. I’ve really done it this time. I’ve taken my body too far and that is why it’s failing like a kid who snores through classes.
Fuck, this is humiliating. The paramedics are removing a wall to get me out, but I don’t know if I can be moved at this size. Will my body survive transportation considering my lungs are essentially collapsing, I don’t think being rolled over and being moved will be good for my breathing. There are too many possible complications.
My heart rate and shallow breathing only ramp up when I see neighbors across the street peeping at the ordeal of my wall falling, excited about seeing the evacuation of a true Shamu. It’s like I’m performing an obesity act for them. They’ll get to go home after the show and I’ll just have to live with it trapped in my own body. I believe some of them are filming it for later and I know it’ll end up on social media later. That’s the least of my concerns right now, though.
“How does someone let himself get that big? File says he’s only 25," says a paramedic, as tears well up in my eyes. I just want this to all be over. He’s right though. I did this to myself. There is no one else to blame.
There should have been an alarm in my head that went off when putting my shoes on became a hassle. A louder one when walking became a daunting task. Why wasn’t I alarmed when I was spending thousands of dollars a month on food, or when people were sending me money to eat for them on cam? Because the food always took priority, I thought soberly.
There should have been a point that alarmed me, but the metaphorical ringing was muffled from the constant euphoria of a sugar high from all the decadent snacks as I ate myself to immobility. Something is psychologically wrong because I was eating myself to an early grave and any fear I had about that dissipated with grease, lard, and sugar. I became desensitized to the alarm. I traded my mobility, my health, and my life for food.
I have no clue how much I weigh. My anxiety spikes into overdrive as they are ready to move my bloated body into the ambulance for all to see. I’m to be transported to a hospital that inevitably won’t have the equipment for my girth, nor a doctor with compassion for my condition. My chest thumps harder. Is this a heart attack or an anxiety attack? I’m hoping for the latter as I clutch my chest.
A million and one thoughts rush through my head, but I try to think about the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique, block them all out. Five things I see: the muscular paramedics struggling to move me, the rubble from the torn-down wall, the shocked audience watching it all go down, the ambulance outside labeled “Bariatric,” and my belly draped over my knees.
Four is touch. I squeeze my chest, desperate for relief from the pain shooting beneath my breasts. I feel an oxygen mask wrapped snug around my fat face. I breathe heavily into it, hoping that it’ll push my lungs open so I can feel them expand. My airway gets just a little looser as oxygen is forced down my fat throat. My heavy back rolls are being pushed by several pairs of hands to roll me off to the side and onto a cool tarp.
Three sounds take precedence over all else. Thump, thump, thump goes my overstressed and enlarged heart. Over the years the grease took its toll, clogging up arteries and valves. My breathing is still raspy and labored even with the oxygen mask. The “1-2-3-Go!” of the paramedics, followed by their own labored grunting, echoes in my head as they struggle to move me into the ambulance.
The air is thick and heavy as the paramedics gag on my stench. In all honesty, my body is a mess. I traded in showers for sponge baths, and it’s not always easy for a nurse to get up in every fold and crevasse. Even when I’m clean there’s just a grotesque smell, possibly from the skin necrosis on my diabetic legs. The paramedics are retching. My stench is strong, but the scent of fast food wrappers piques my mind, leaving me wondering what my next meal will be. The taste of fried chicken lingers in my mouth, but I know what I want now. My tummy growls.
“C-can we stop for... d-donuts on the way to the hospital?” I ask, wheezing through my words. The paramedic shakes his head in disbelief and rolls his eyes as he closes the back of the ambulance.