The Point of No Return
Warning: contains death feedism, health issues
The doctor took one look at your boyfriend’s gut as he waddled into the examination room beside you and you knew the lecture would be severe.
‘When you were referred to me because of your test results, I thought there had been a mistake given your age. Not many people in early adulthood get sent to bariatric specialists.’
A lie, you thought. It had to be. The amount of college students with bellies hanging out of their shirts and sweating with even the laziest movement surely wasn’t something you imagined. Yes, he was fat… but wasn’t everyone these days, really?
‘I don’t know what to say, doc,’ your boyfriend shrugs, ‘I feel fine.’
Now this was definitely a lie. He’d been complaining of chest pains for days, and breathlessness for weeks. That’s why they’d asked their regular doctor to run the tests in the first place.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ the doctor said, looking him up and down as he shakily settled his bulk in a chair, his belly oozing over the armrests. ‘I can see from here that your breathing is labored, and your mobility doesn’t seem great. You don’t need to lie. Your obesity is clearly impacting your health, young man.’
‘Obesity?’
You smirk. Your boyfriend knows he’s big, but still bristles at the word. You know it’s your fault - you’re the one who keeps bringing burgers and fries to him on the couch so he doesn’t have to get up, sizing up his clothes before he can complain about their tightness and telling him how good he looks. He’s not in denial about the fact he can’t tie his own shoes anymore, or that sometimes he needs to take a rest walking from the couch to the car; he’s massive and slow and food obsessed, but never have either of you used the word “obese”.
‘Yes,’ the doctor replies simply. ‘Morbid obesity.’
Your boyfriend doesn’t say anything to that. You know his mind is wandering, his thoughts turning to the fried chicken you promised on the ride home.
After a moment the doctor continues. ‘Now, usually these appointments are one on one for privacy, would you like your partner to step out?’ He indicates you.
‘No, I want them here,’ your boyfriend replies quickly.
‘Very well.’
Perfect. You being able to listen in on the appointment was a condition of the fried chicken. Your boyfriend’s gut audibly rumbles and you stifle a smile. The doctor seems to notice your reaction and raises an eyebrow, before looking back to his patient.
‘So, your test results,’ the doctor begins. ‘As I said, quite unusual for someone your age, but seeing your physical condition I’m not surprised. Tell me, do you drink?’
He shakes his head.
‘Well, then, that means that the evidence I’m seeing here of liver disease is purely caused by diet and lifestyle. You’ve stuffed yourself so silly with slop that pure lard is accumulating on your liver, congealing there in thick yellow clumps while you sit on your ass. I’d feel the area for some swelling, but I don’t think there’s much point - I doubt I would feel anything beneath that thick layer of flab.’
Your boyfriend is shocked by the doctor’s bluntness, and frankly so are you - this isn’t the delicate sidestepping of the issue you’re both used to from his regular doctor. This guy must see hundreds of fatties a week, and is sick of putting it nicely. You appreciate that. It’s good to know where people stand.
‘Your cholesterol is terrible, of course. And your blood pressure is through the roof. But I feel like none of this is a surprise to you. It’s not like you grew that belly overnight.’
He certainly didn’t. You’ve put a lot of time into that belly, keeping it well fed and rubbing it when full. That belly is an achievement for you both - you know that he knows what you’re doing, you’ve caught him examining himself in the mirror with awe. As much as you love everything else that’s come with it - the large ring of fat below his chin that hides his neck, the flabby arms, the bloated chest, the thick legs - the belly will always be the best of the bunch. It makes buckling his seatbelt a chore - the extender you bought can only help so much. It makes taking the stairs a hardship, it makes going to the movies impossible, it makes clothes difficult to find. But for all the damage it’s doing, that collection of visceral fat hanging from his midsection is the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.
‘I’d advise diet and exercise, but is there much point?’
Your boyfriend looks at you and then at the doctor, before shifting his eyes to the floor.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he mumbles
‘No, because you’re a lazy fatboy, aren’t you? Say it.’
‘W-what?’
‘You’re a lazy fatboy who cares more about stuffing his face and lounging around getting bigger than he cares about his health. There’s medicines I can prescribe you, but I want to hear you admit it first.’
This doctor wasn’t fucking around. Your boyfriend seems embarrassed at first, before meeting his eye.
‘Yeah, I’m a lazy fucking fatboy. I’m pathetic and bloated and out of shape. My gut is getting bigger and harder to heave up each day and guess what? It’s fucked up but I like it. So give me the medicine so I can keep going.’
Your eyes widen. You had no idea how aware he was of what was happening. You certainly had no idea how much he was into it. But then, of course he was. You don’t let yourself get fed into needing size 5XL clothes if you’re not at least somewhat complicit.
The doctor’s eyes widen too. Smirking, he reaches for his prescription pad. ‘A worthy opponent,’ he quips, writing a long list of medicines. ‘Let’s see what wins out first - an age of medical science, or the fat that’s already strangling your organs. I hope for your sake it’s the former.’
‘Me too,’ your boyfriend says, shifting himself out of his seat with difficulty, sweat creasing his brow and dampening his underarms. He reaches for the prescription in the doctor’s outstretched hand, stepping forward and taking it with a puff of exertion.
‘Better get that prescription filled on the way home,’ the doctor advises you directly, ‘before whatever junk you’re planning on feeding him.’
You look at your boyfriend and nod, following him as his lumbering gait slowly moves him step by step out of the office. His mobility really has declined lately. It takes what feels like an hour to reach the car.
‘You had no idea, did you?’ he says through labored breaths as you help him get buckled in.
‘About how much you love this?’ you ask, running your hand over his expansive belly, the bottom of it peeking out from under his shirt and pressing against the dashboard. ‘I had a feeling… but no, I didn’t know.’
‘Thank you for helping me grow,’ he says, putting his hands either side of his gut and shaking it. He winces slightly; maybe he’s pressing against his liver, maybe it’s the chest pains again.
It probably is best to get those meds immediately.
But then again, a promise is a promise. You kiss him, start the car and drive towards KFC.
