I vaguely remembered meeting Glenn.
“He liked me?”
And I told him, ‘She’s not chubby!
She’s busty!’
And Glenn said, ‘In that case, hook me up.'"
I wasn’t charmed by this anecdote.
Glenn didn’t know it, but he had stumbled into my life during a rare slender period.
I was 26 and wore a size 6 dress.
Thanks to a 5-mile-a-day running habit, my weight even dropped during our first year together.
Glenn and I got serious.
“Look at each other,” the rabbi said.
“Is this the person you want to grow old with?
The person you vow to love from this day forward?”
We said yes, and yes.
It was one of the few times I saw Glenn cry.
Glenn fit me well, too.
When we went shopping, Glenn threw Doritos and cupcakes into the cart casually, guiltlessly.
Spoken like a rube.
Naturally, I ate more than he did from those crinkly packages.
Embarrassed by my lack of willpower, I’d sneak a cookie here, a handful of chips there.
Luckily, he didn’t notice that I’d shelved my skinny jeans.
Within two years,I was up 15 pounds.
Then, at age 30, I got pregnant with our first daughter.
I topped 200 pounds by my ninth month, a gain of 60.
I dieted after Maggie was born, losing weight but not enough.
The net gain of the Maggie pregnancy was 20 pounds.
When Maggie was 2, I got pregnant with Lucy.
This time, I swam laps and avoided sweets.
The night we met, I wore a size 6 backless minidress.
Seven years later, at Lucy’s first birthday party, I wore size 14 stretch jeans.
Forty pounds and four sizes in seven years.
I was overworked and overwhelmed, so I overate.
As a couple, Glenn and I were content.
As an individual, I was tired of feeling fat.
Glenn was endlessly supportive.
Besides being hurtful and insulting, Glenn’s comment was untrue; my flab went straight to my belly.
I was gigantic, sweaty and cursing.
People on the street stared.
He was embarrassed, more for me than himself.
And that was the last I heard from him about my weight.
On New Year’s Eve 1999, I vowed to get serious about losing weight.
My girls deserved a healthy mom; Glenn deserved his slender bride, not the behemoth I’d become.
It wasn’t too late for me to improve myself.
I didn’t know it then, but it was too late for Glenn.
He thought stress was responsible for his severe back pain.
He saw a doctor about it and went through a series of X-rays and MRIs.
That June, he endured more tests, which confirmed the worst.
The back pain was triggered by a malignant metastasis on his spine.
He also had brain lesions, too many to count.
The diagnosis was lung cancer, stage IV.
In the summer, he had surgery, radiation and chemo.
He died in the fall, November 3, 2000.
In the five months between diagnosis and death, Glenn dwindled to skeletal proportions.
Watching the ravages of his disease was souland appetitekilling for me.
I dropped 25 pounds, and two dress sizes, seemingly overnight, effortlessly.
And I was thrilled about it.
Yes, my husband was dying.
I was on the verge of widowhood at 35.
My daughters were losing their father.
And still, despite the sorrow, I found joy in my increasingly roomy clothing.
With secret giddiness, I reached for a pair of red jeans I’d worn on our honeymoon.
A few weeks post-diagnosis, I was able to get them over my hips.
One month later, I could zip themand breathe.
Then they were loose.
I smiled dreamily as I beheld my shrinking self in the mirror.
Glenn had half a dozen painkillers and antidepressants to ease his suffering.
Weight loss took the edge off of mine.
I kept this secret to myself.
Given the grim reality that defined our days, who would understand?
There was ordinary life: schlepping the kids to school, working, shopping, cleaning.
We held on to hope, which, in this crisis, was another word for denial.
The one person who didn’t comment on my body was the man who knew it best.
Granted, Glenn was grappling with larger issues than my stomach bulge.
When he was awake, we talked about anything, no matter how small and insignificant.
Glenn had always been a great gossip, which I appreciated in a man.
We talked about us and how great our life would be once he recovered.
We never talked about loss of life.
Or loss of weight.
My size simply didn’t register with Glenn.
Whatever he saw in me, it had nothing to do with my weight.
Glenn passed the test over and over again, with flying colors.
If I failed to see it then, I don’t now.
No matter how much I’d prepared for it, his absence was shocking and huge.
I spent night after night in misery, alone in my bedroom with the TV on.
This was the reality of widowhood.
I had the sneaking suspicion I’d find those lost pounds again, probably sooner than later.
But I feared that true love was gone from my life forever.
But, of course, there are some tastes that can’t be nibbled.
Excerpted fromThin Is the New Happy(St. Martin’s Press) by Valerie Frankel.
2008 by Valerie Frankel.
Photo Credit: Carin Krasner/Corbis