A winter night in 2003 marked a low point in my life. From the outside people may not have seen it, because I had so much to be grateful for. My wife and I had just moved into the dream home I built with my own hands, we had a healthy baby girl (our fourth), and secure employment. My problem was that I was a food addict. I had never heard that expression before and never thought of using it, but that is what I was. One night, my wife was at work at the hospital. We had made a tray of sweets for dessert. We each had one before she went to work. After I put the kids to bed, I went to the kitchen to get one more to munch on while I watched television. After a few minutes, I went for one more and promised myself that... Continue Reading
I lay strapped down on the operating table and looked up at the bright lamps and masked faces above me. In preparation for the major surgery I would undergo, I had been given no food for several days to clean out my gastro-intestinal system, and I was pumped full of antibiotics and sedatives. I was trembling uncontrollably and kept hearing my parents’ voices when they phoned me the night before. “Don’t do it!” they begged. “There must be some other way for you to lose weight.” But nothing would stop me now! I was finally going to have the weight-loss surgery for which I had waited so long. My last thought as the anesthetic sent me spiraling down into a whirlpool of darkness was, “I don’t care if I die. I can’t go on living like this.” I was 33 years old, with a husband and three small children, and... Continue Reading
