The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (14 page)

It’s a truly killer workout. And I like the metaphorical significance of climbing a mountain—overcoming obstacles, striving toward a goal, and all that. Even though it’s only really a hill.

They’re a friendly lot at my new job. When my boss Sue took me around for introductions, every colleague had a welcoming smile. On Tuesday, I was hunting through the fridge for my salad when someone came in for a cuppa and started talking. I looked around, even checked in the freezer compartment, but they were actually talking to me!

As the week went on, I found my feet. So this is what it’s like to use your brain at work! I spent the last three years on autopilot with all that HTML and photocopying; but now I get to write and talk and come up with ideas. I can’t believe my luck.

Best of all, I’m busy. I didn’t have time to think about Kit Kats or hamburgers or my general state of fatness. Sue had to remind me it was lunchtime, and I went out to the park with my salad and felt utterly content.

I’m wary of saying I love my new job, because as you know, I’m paranoid, and if I dare to say I am happy it will all turn to shit. So let me rephrase. This week was great. There was no crying in the loos, no photocopying, no staple removing, no data entry.

But I actually kind of miss the staple removing.

Poppy is in Orange Base Hospital. He’s extremely weak after an operation on Monday.

The smell and brightness of the place is suffocating. My aunt and uncle were there too and we hadn’t caught up since Christmas, so we talked too loud and too cheerfully in order to drown out the sound of Poppy’s broken breathing.

Later on, when the others had gone, Mum and Rhiannon and I couldn’t take our eyes off him. His lips seem to have retreated back into his face, only moving now and then to curl up in pain. He looks swallowed up by the big wheelchair they’ve put him in. He has to wear huge aviator sunglasses because the light hurts his eyes. He used to wear those glasses while he drove the tractor; now they look so far out of context I almost smile.

We talked to Nanny about work and Mount Ainslie and any old shit. We were there for hours and hours and his body was perfectly still. His muscles have deteriorated so much that his face is smooth with hardly a wrinkle.

There was a long minute where we all held our breath. Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed to Rhiannon, beckoning her closer. He put his hand over hers, and when she squeezed it, he made a tiny, sad sound.

Then he pointed to me. My sister and I changed places. His hand was like crepe paper. He hooked his fingers around my thumb like newborn babies do. I gripped a little tighter, wishing I could pour my strength into his body somehow. His hand trembled but he squeezed back.

And then it was time to go; we had a long drive back to Canberra. We didn’t want to say goodbye. We all kissed him then hugged Nanny so tight. She’d never hugged back so hard before.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next or how long this will continue. No one wants to speculate or think about it. There was a heavier feeling this time. We left the ward but turned back to hug and kiss them again.

Out in the car park, Mum started to cry. It ripped me apart to see her look so vulnerable. Rhiannon and I squeezed her between us and searched for the right thing to say.

Soon we were on the road and somebody said something funny, so we dived into that conversation and stopped thinking for a while.

It seems stupid even mentioning this right now, but I’m still losing weight. After eight weeks of plain yogurt and unlimited cucumber, I’m down to 253 pounds. It just keeps coming off in hefty chunks, and I’m almost back to my Weight Watchers lowest.

SureSlim is suiting me well right now. The repetition and lack of choice is a relief. It leaves my mind free for work, friends, exercise, and most of all my family. My body feels strangely calm; I’m not fighting against it anymore. I’m sticking to the plan when I can and trying not to panic when I can’t. The café near the hospital doesn’t sell SureSlim salads, but I’d rather eat an illicit sandwich and be with my family.

Meanwhile, my clothes are fitting again. Some are getting too big. They measured me at my weigh-in last week and I’d lost two inches off my bust and waist and two and a half inches off my hips. My flesh is on the move. I’m not sure where it goes exactly, but there seems to be less of it hanging around.

It’s only a month until my birthday. Despite last year’s projected figures, I’m not going to attain my projected figure by my twenty-fifth birthday—the body is still lumpy and bumpy and miles from goal. My spreadsheet couldn’t predict life getting in the way of weight loss.

They’ve moved Poppy back home. Well, home to the hospital in Cowra.

Rhiannon and I drove up to see him today; Mum was already there. We sat with him and Nanny and we could all feel that we don’t have long.

There was a moment when Rhiannon and I couldn’t help smiling in spite of ourselves. Nanny has diabetes and often tells us about her brave battle with the blood sugar. Today she was going on about the Glycemic Index and recalling all the Times She’d Been Naughty. She spoke of a mouthful of cheesecake with the same forbidden glee most people reserve for skinny dipping or shoplifting. It was reassuring to discover that comfort eating is in my genes. She recalled the dearly departed family members of 2002 (it’s been a very rough year) and what she ate on each occasion.

“When my brother Mick died, I ate half a family bar of chocolate. And it was damn delicious. Then when Colin died, I had a packet of chips. Salt and vinegar, I think ... ooh, I do love chips. And when Rick died the other day, what did I have? Hmm. Let me think. Oh yes, I had a Kit Kat. That’s right.”

She held Poppy’s hand, stroking it tenderly and talking over the top of his fractured breathing.

“If anything else traumatic happens, I might have to eat a whole cake.”

Why did I go to my weigh-in today? Mum called me at work with the news but it didn’t sink in. I hung up the phone and told Sue I was going out to lunch.

I kept slipping out of my sandals as I walked past the casino. I’d stupidly slathered my feet with moisturizer this morning in an attempt to make them feel soft and springlike.

They’re always playing some cheesy song over the PA to persuade gamblers to enter and leave their kids in the car. Today it was “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” The background singers sounded so mournful and I just couldn’t believe he was gone.

I weighed in, then went back to the office, still in a trance. I was halfheartedly typing up a press release when it hit me like a wave. I started bawling right there at my desk. Sue was kind and told me I should go home.

“No, it’s cool! I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Rhiannon called not long after. “How are you doing?”

“Not that great. How about you?”

“A bit crap. Want me to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

Rhiannon and I have always had some sort of cosmic food thing happening. As soon as I got in the car we looked at each other and said, “Passion fruit cheesecake.”

I’ve never felt so grateful for my sister and our unspoken understanding of all things. We needed cheesecake. It was huge, like the face of an old school clock, glowing orange with the promise of passion fruit crunch.

We sat in front of the telly and ceremoniously cracked open the box.

“I’m sure Poppy would have wanted us to have this,” said Rhiannon with a sly smile.

“Yes!” I cut two fat slices. “To Poppy!”

It tasted smooth and cool, almost easing the hollow ache in my stomach. We sat there quietly watching
Neighbours
with the volume turned down. I tried to block out the last time I saw him with his face so gray and twisted with pain. I thought of him back on the farm, sitting at the kitchen bench, digging out stray bits of lunch with a toothpick, cracking jokes, smelling like the shearing shed; being the guy I idolized all my life.

It’s only been a few hours but I just want to tell you, I miss you miss you miss you so much.

When I was a little kid, straight out of the bath on a winter’s night, Mum would make me wear a turtleneck under my pajamas for added warmth. For some reason, I used to freak out about this. I couldn’t stand the suffocating feeling of that tight neck dragging over my head, squeezing down over my forehead and nose, plastering freshly shampooed hair to my cheeks. I’d wave my arms and stomp around with a muffled squeal. “It feels yucky! Yucky!”

That’s how I feel today. Grief is clinging to me like cheap polyester. I just want to scream: Get it off me!

It doesn’t seem to fit quite right. I’m saying lines I’ve never had to say before, words that feel strange and tight on my lips.

I’ll have to skip the meeting next Tuesday because it’s my grandfather’s funeral. (Finally, a legitimate excuse!)

The more I say it, the easier it gets, so long as I don’t stop and actually listen to the words.

Is there anything more exhausting than grief? My body feels like an old tea bag, paper thin and full of tiny holes, all scrunched up and drained after being dunked in and out of a cup of hot shittiness.

My friends have been amazing. Peita wrote me an e-mail about losing her own grandma and she described how it feels so perfectly that I went and cried in the loo at work. Then yesterday afternoon my friends Belinda, Matt, and Rachael showed up on the doorstep with flowers and ice cream. They didn’t say a word, they just held out their gifts like the Three Wise Friends. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I wanted to grab them and never let go and tell them how much their presence meant, but I felt too tired and stupid to express it. I will have to write some superlative thank-you notes.

On the other hand you get the Standard Issue phrases from people. You’ll be OK. Time will help. That just makes me boil. I don’t want to hear that it gets easier; that I should be happy Poppy’s not suffering anymore, that he’s gone to a better place. I’m not sure I believe in a better place. I just miss him like hell and want someone to say something that will take away the rock in my stomach. Somebody must know the magic phrase. Why won’t anyone speak up?

I’ve been acting like a bratty child all week. I don’t feel I have any control over what I say or do, I’m just floundering. I want to curl up in a ball and not think about anything.

I’m being selfish and pathetic just when there are people around me who need me to be strong. Rhiannon and I have to stand up there in front of a churchful of people on Tuesday. I’d rather write a thousand stinky press releases than one eulogy.

It’s such a wake-up call. I’ve been cruising along for almost twenty-five years, thinking that the Grown-ups know what they’re doing; that they are in charge. But I’ve been so busy being fat, depressed, and directionless that I didn’t notice all the wrinkles and hardships collecting on their faces. It’s only just occurred to me that I’m supposed to be a Grown-up too. They asked Rhiannon and me to do the eulogy because they’re too wrecked from losing a son, a brother, a nephew, all in the space of two months.

Sometimes you need to set aside your own shit and be there for someone else. I want to do them proud. I want to pay a worthy tribute to my grandfather.

All my memories are tangled up with food. When I sat down to write Poppy’s eulogy, the first thing I thought of was how every year we’d buy him a jar of chocolate-covered almonds for Christmas. He’d always rattle the parcel and smirk, “Hmm, I wonder what this could be?”

I seem to measure my milestones with meals. Some people remember what they were doing or what they wore, but I can always tell you what I ate. Ask me in ten years about tonight—how my mother, my aunt and uncle, Nanny, Rhiannon, and I all gathered around the table—and I will recall every mouthful of Chinese take-away. I will remember the sound of the plastic containers ripping open and the purposeful clatter of forks. I will remember the steam rising from the rice and how a bellyful of MSG dulled my senses.

How do you cope without stuffing your face? Without food to keep you busy, there are only words and feelings. I need a hobby like knitting, so I’ve got something else to do with my hands.

25 Things Thought at the Funeral of Malcolm James

1. Look at all these people, you popular fella.

2. I better start being nicer to people. I want crowds too.

3. Stop looking at the coffin.

4. But the coffin looks so small. He was taller than that!

5. We are crammed so tight into this pew. What if my skirt schloops off when I stand up to do the eulogy?

6. Why the bloody hell did I wear a skirt?

7. Actually, I think I look pretty good in this skirt. I wonder if anyone else is thinking that?

8. Of course they’re not, you idiot! This is a funeral, not a fashion parade.

9. Oh, we’re on!

10. You’re doing great, Rhiannon. Keep going, tiger.

11. My turn. I don’t recognize my voice. It’s calm and clear and upbeat.

12. They’re listening to every word. We made them laugh and cry. I feel like Billy Graham!

13. If I squeeze Rhi’s hand a little harder, we will get through this together.

14. I wish they could raise the speed limit of funeral processions.

15. I wish they could lower the speed of the coffin into the ground.

16. And now you’re really gone.

17. I loved how whenever Rhi and I used to argue as kids, you would say in sage tones, “As the dead sheep said to the crow, stop picking on me!”

18. Ooh, goody! Looks like those little old ladies have done the catering for the wake.

19. Little old ladies make the best cakes ever. SureSlim can bite me today!

20. If one more person tells us we did a beautiful job of the eulogy, I will explode with pride and there will be little fluttery bits of pride all over the sponge cakes and egg sandwiches.