LizzieBeezWax

Everyone who knows me knows how close I am to my mom. She is my sounding board, my confidant, my cheerleader.
 
For as long as I remember she’s told me: “All I want is for you to spread your wings fly.” She’s wanted me to fly, told me to fly, done all she can to help me fly.
 
Before, I didn’t realize how out of control I was – of my life, of my destiny, of my world, and of the world around me. I did not realize how little, we as people, have control of. I didn’t realize how very young I was, compared to how old I felt.
 
I did not realize it Before. Not until After did I understand life makes us no promises. I did not realize that nothing last forever – not really in my wide-eyed, naiveté. I did not realize the fragility of life and of people – not really. I didn’t understand (truly understand) that strongest of us fall. Nothing last forever.
 
It all came into sharp focus on November 14, 2014.
 
In September 2014, I was 24-years-old and 300 pounds. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t miserable. I was cute, but I was safe. I was the funny one, the extrovert, the wingman to skinnier, prettier friends. I was comfortable. I was invisible. I was fun in social situations. I could laugh at myself – or lash out if I needed to.
 
I had job I enjoyed, family and friends I loved, and I had just started graduate school for writing – my passion. My life was going somewhere. I was going somewhere.
 
My heart was shattered on September 28, 2014. My father was rushed to the hospital for pneumonia. Or so I thought. But cancer is not something that would happen to my family. It would only happen to others, less fortunate than I.
 
“I have lung cancer,” he told me. His voice shook in a very un-Frank Meyer way. And by the time he died sex weeks later, we knew it had spread to his brain and his bones. He had one chemotherapy treatment, and never got out of bed.
 
I did not realize before the black, acidic six-letter word left his mouth how out of control I was. Not until I was helping my 62-year-old mother care for my dying father in home hospice. Not until I watched him deteriorate of the course of 6 weeks, while attending graduate school. Not until finally watching him die 3 days after my 25th birthday. Not until I heard the faceless ghosts leave my home with the shell of what used to be my father in a bag at eleven at night. Not until I truly lost what was important – something I could never get back – did I understand.
 
Before my world was pulled from under me, I had considered weight loss surgery, thought never seriously.
 
Monday, December 29th, 2014, I had my first appointment.
 
“I want you to fly,” my mother told me. But I was too fat to fly – and not just physically.
Because even in grief, I was furious with my dad. He was my rock, my constant – but he was not a healthy person. He ate poorly his entire life and he smoked for forty years (two thirds of his). Even today, I am hurt and angry that for eleven years of my life he chose to slowly kill himself.
 
At no point did he look at me – his daughter and only child – and think I was worth more than these choices? Did the food and the cigarettes mean more to him than I did?
 
Rationally, I understand my dad did not abandon me. But he is not here.
 
Rationally, I understand he was not thinking “this burger/cigarette/whatever is more important than being around for my daughter’s future.” But he is not here because of the choices he made.
 
My father was 66 when he passed. I never thought of 33 as being middle-aged.
 
At 25, I was not going to by middle-aged at 12.
 
July 20, 2015 I had gastric sleeve surgery.
 
There are things in this world worth fighting for. My own health is work fighting for. My own happiness is worth fighting for. I am worth fighting for.
 
“I want you to fly,” my mother told me.
 
Now my feet will never touch the ground again.