The Making of Us

by Debbie McGowan

  Between my alarm, the rushed shower and the stress of finding out bus times, my good mood was well gone by the time I reached the kitchen, where my mum had made me a cup of tea and held the bread up to ask if I wanted toast. I shook my head.

  “No, thanks, Mum. Not hungry.”

  She raised an eyebrow but didn’t challenge me on it. “You’re not at college today, are you?”

  I refrained from correcting her, because she was almost right. “No, I’m not.”

  “A study day or a day off?”

  “Weight management clinic.” I sighed into my tea and watched the ripples dissipate.

  “Oh.” She rubbed my back. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  That made me smile. She offered every time, still not used to me being an adult who could talk to doctors, dentists and opticians on my own, although maybe a dose of my mum’s fury would put a rocket up the arses of the dieticians at the clinic and they might actually do more than ask me if I’d been eating healthily. Seriously, they must be one of the most-lied-to professionals in the NHS.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some toast?”

  “Positive.” I tried to glug my tea, but it was still too hot, and even though the bus wasn’t for another forty minutes, I needed to get out of there. With one last mouthful, I tipped the rest of my tea down the edge of the sink so it didn’t make a splash, and gave my mum a quick hug. “See you later. Have a good day.”

  “You, too, love. Good luck.”

  I was gonna need it.

  ***

  So…the bus was late. Great start. I reached the clinic at twenty to eleven, out of breath, sweating and without my letter, which I thought was probably still on my bed, along with my phone.

  “I’ll see if they can fit you in,” the receptionist said, once she’d found my details on the computer. “Take a seat, please.”

  “Thanks,” I puffed out and walked over to the chairs. The super-narrow chairs in the super-crowded waiting room. It was definitely a punitive system. Surely, given the kind of clinic it was, they’d know most of their patients weren’t going to fit into chairs that were both too small and too close together? Then there was the eternal waiting, which was bad enough on a normal day, when I wasn’t receiving extra punishment for turning up late and I had something to fill the wait with.

  There were only two free chairs, in the middles of rows, so I picked up a magazine from the end of the counter and went to stand against the wall. Oh, yeah, and didn’t I pick the perfect thing to while away the however long I’d be there? Celebrity gossip, stick-thin celebrities, beach bodies, muscles and tan. Thanks so much, National Health Service, for constantly shoving it down my throat.

  I put the magazine back, glancing over the rest of the offerings—healthy living, sport and fitness, more celebrity gossip—and gave up. Thirsty from sacrificing my morning cuppa and then rushing to get here, I wandered over to the vending machine—no bottles of water—and miserably returned to my previous standing space. This was gonna be one loooong morning.

  People came; people went. Even people who arrived after me, although some of them had kids with them, and this was bad enough without, so I didn’t mind too much. I watched the waiting room pour scorn on a particularly big guy who hobbled in on crutches, coughing his guts up. See, it wasn’t just our average-sized healthcare professionals casting judgements; we were as bad ourselves. The guy booked in at the desk, looked around for a seat, as I’d done, and came over to where I was standing.

  “Alright?” he wheezed.

  “Yeah, you?”

  “So-so.” He stood next to me and leaned a crutch against the wall, coughing again and then smiling apologetically. “It’s a hell of a way from the car park,” he explained.

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah. They don’t care about that, though, do they? It’s all exercise, eh?”

  I’d have laughed at his sarcasm, but this whole situation was just too damn awful to be funny.

  It wasn’t long after that my name was called, and I headed for the next step of my quarterly torture: onto the weighing chair, which was enormous, then the contraption for measuring height, with the mandatory, “You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” while they stretched up and lowered the measuring stick onto my head, followed by blood pressure and then, “All done.”

  They never, ever volunteered the information, and today I was glad, because I didn’t want to know. Or I didn’t want to know enough to go to the effort of bracing myself for the bad news and asking the question.

  “If you can wait outside, the dieticians will call you shortly, Jesse.”

  “OK, thanks.” Back out I went, to the chairs along the corridor, opposite the dieticians’ room. At least there was a bit more space.

  I didn’t bother looking at the magazines. Instead, I tried to plan my Discourse Analysis essay in my head, hoping I’d recalled the question correctly. Actually, I couldn’t recall the question at all, but the gist was discussing whether contemporary language innovation subverted or maintained hegemonic discourse. I was planning to compare the language standardisation of the industrial revolution to the impact of information technology, but I needed more focus, and…my thoughts had bored me into a stupor already. I seriously couldn’t do this in a hospital corridor.

  “Jesse Thomas?”

  Without looking, because I knew the drill, I got up and trudged after yet another dietician I’d never met before. It didn’t matter, as they all did the same thing: read my notes, asked me questions, and told me things I already knew, like…

  “It’s a one-year wait for gastric surgery. Now, the most common treatment is the gastric band…”

  To which, I always said, and today was no exception, “I don’t want surgery.”

  “It still requires a change in lifestyle. Surgery on its own doesn’t—”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “OK.”

  For Christ’s sake, why? I mean, I got why. They’d told me already; most people signed up to weight management with the hope of a miracle cure for their obesity, believing surgery was the answer. I was a third-year undergraduate student; I knew how to research for myself, so even if I’d believed that at the start, I knew that almost half the people who had gastric surgery ended up as fat, if not fatter than they were before.

  You could cheat gastric bands—melt chocolate, eat ice cream, or liquidise burgers and pizzas, probably—and a sleeve didn’t stop your stomach from stretching to compensate for its decreased size. Gastric bypass meant taking supplements for the rest of your life. I knew all this. Twenty-one years old, and I was a professional dieter. Hell, I could’ve taught people what they needed to do to lose weight, but knowing and doing it were two very different things.

  “What help do you feel you need from us, Jesse?”

  Head-desk, head-desk, head-desk. “I…don’t know.” To lose weight? To keep the weight off? To find a way to stop feeling like a loser in every way but the one way I want to be?

  “Well, your weight’s stable, which is positive.”

  “Good.” Stable, but still too heavy.

  “And your blood pressure is fine—a little on the high side.”

  Yep, because this is the most stressful place on Earth!

  “You know, if you cut out one snack a day, that would probably be all you need to do to see some steady weight loss.”

  “Yes.” I nodded and smiled and refused to say anything else. I didn’t snack. I either stuffed my face or starved myself, so snacking would undoubtedly be a move in the right direction, not that the dieticians would see it that way. Unless I snacked on tiny raisins or something.

  “If you get peckish between meals, try switching to healthy snacks. A handful of cereal with a few raisins…”

  There we go.

  “…unsalted nuts, seeds. Rice cakes with low-fat cream cheese, maybe.”

  Like sawdust and PVA glue.

  “Are you eating plenty of fibre?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “And you’re drinking plenty of water?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about sugar in hot drinks? Have you cut it out?”

  “Yes.” I clamped my teeth together to stop the scream escaping. I’d done it all, and more, and told them every single time I’d come here.

  “I understand your frustration, Jesse.”

  Do you really?

  “If you’re doing all these things, you should be losing weight. Did you get an information pack last time you came?”

  “Yes.” And the time before, and the time before that…

  “Would you like to take one, just in case?”

  “No, it’s OK. I’ve got one, thank you.” Three, in fact.

  “All right, then. Is there anything else?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She handed over my appointment sheet—“If you take this back to the reception desk, they’ll book your next appointment”—and I was outta there.

  I didn’t bother with the reception desk. Two hours in that hellhole had obliterated every good feeling I’d stored up over the weekend. I caught the bus, holding off, holding off, until I got home, grateful Mum was at work. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, went to my room. And cried.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  I felt so bloody miserable after the clinic I got no work done at all, or not uni work. I tried to burn it off, vacuuming and doing the dishes, but it gave me way too much thinking time. What was the point in going there again? What was the point in anything? Even Leigh…they deserved so much better than this. Better than me. Sexy legs? These hefty trunks? Don’t think so. And even if they did think my legs looked all right, they’d soon change their mind if they saw the rest of me. Pale blubber, moobs, floppy arse cheeks, drooping belly…

  Our first games lesson in high school, they made us strip and shower afterwards, and some kid in our class—I still remembered the bastard’s name, but I refused to use it—said, ‘Ooh, look, Thomas has got a dick…d’you think he knows? Oy, Jess…’ I’d turned away and put my head under the water so I couldn’t hear their mocking laughter. After that, I refused to do games. I faked illness and injuries, asked teachers if they needed jobs doing. I arrived late or even bunked off, which screwed my 100% attendance, but so what?

  Yes, I can see my penis, thank you very much, you little shit. It pissed me off I had to be lying flat on my back to do so, but I could see it, damn it. All these people—kids at school, dieticians, doctors, well-meaning overstepping strangers—acted like I was fat by choice. Why would I choose this? Why?

  Agh, this was not me. This was not me.

  Mum arrived home from work with bags and bags of groceries, which she dumped on the kitchen worktop and then rotated on the spot, inspecting the flat. “Thanks for tidying up, love.”

  “It’s OK,” I said breezily, unloading the closest bag and keeping my face averted. The way my eyes were burning, it would be obvious I’d spent most of the afternoon sobbing like the big fat baby I was, and if Mum asked even one question, I’d fall apart. But I’d moved on from ‘What’s the point?’ to ‘What’s the point in letting them do this to me?’

  The bag contained cauliflower, carrots, spinach, aubergines and tinned tomatoes. My mum. She was so awesome, the way she just knew and did this for me. It was a huge risk, but I stopped unpacking to hug her.

  “Thanks, Mum. I love you.”

  She reached up and ruffled my hair, no words.

  Tears fizzed as I swallowed them down. “They make me feel like shit.”

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  I stayed awhile, letting the gentle tickle of her fingers on my back soothe me, eventually lured away by the promise of my mum’s wonderful veggie curry—exactly what I craved after those day trips to hell. I prepared the vegetables; Mum did all the clever stuff with spices and cooking. It smelled fantastic, and when it was ready, I ate loads, confident that it wouldn’t make any difference because it was completely fat free and just full of good stuff—I could’ve eaten the entire pan full and not reached a thousand calories, but like Matty said, that was part of the problem. I needed to eat the same amount every day, instead of starving myself for days on end, which inevitably led to a blowout.

  After we’d eaten, I washed up so my mum could go catch up on her soaps, and then I got my laptop, kicking myself for not thinking to start it up before I did the dishes. Half an hour later, I was still looking at a blue screen. I sighed and closed the lid.

  “Isn’t it working?” Mum asked.

  “I dunno.” I didn’t have the energy to try again and see.

  “You’re going to have to bite the bullet, I think.”

  “Yeah.” But not tonight. I got up and went back to my room. This evening definitely called for a bit of Pink, and the rocky stuff, to get the anger out, because that was what the tears were really. Anger and frustration that I let my weight rule my life. I was doing great at uni, I had a wonderful family, brilliant mates, and I was going out with Leigh.

  Yeah.

  Settling back on my bed, I cranked up the volume on my stereo as loudly as I could without disturbing Mum’s TV viewing, and opened Facebook on my phone.

  “Oh, bloody hell.” I laughed, suddenly feeling all warm inside. Sometimes I forgot the entire world wasn’t against me. There were people who liked me just the way I was.

  Loads of messages, from Noah, Matty, Ryan…and Leigh. I opened the one from Ryan first, because he only sent me a message when he wanted something.

  Still got your essays from American Lit by any chance?

  Yep, on my laptop.

  Can you email the post-colonialism one?

  Laptop’s shagged, sorry.

  Bollocks. Never mind.

  As if I was sending Ryan one of my essays. Not that I thought he was going to plagiarise…well, yeah, actually, that’s exactly what I thought. Next message:

  Hey Jess. You OK? Noah said he’s been calling you all morning. x

  I checked my call log: two missed calls—hardly all morning.

  Yeah, I’m OK, Matty. I’m talking to him now.

  I switched conversations.

  Where are you, bro? Noah had sent that at ten a.m. He must’ve gone into uni, expecting me to be there.

  Why? Did you miss me?

  Always. What’s up?

  Three words, I replied. Weight management clinic.

  Oh, mate. You alright?

  I’d get over it.

  Yeah. I am now. My laptop’s fried, though.

  I switched again—saving the best till last…

  Hey Jesse. Hope your day’s going OK and you’re getting loads done. x

  If I’d had my phone with me earlier, I’d have got the message while I was in the waiting room.

  Then, 11:30:

  That was a mad lecture. Advanced maths? Call that advanced? Haha. x

  Only I could fall for a number buff. I was OK at maths. Advanced maths? I didn’t even know what that was.

  Next message, 13:00:

  Eating lunch…wish you were here. x

  Could a heart explode from swelling with love? Yeah, I was pretty sure by now it was love.

  Final message, 16:10:

  Are you ever coming online today? Pleeeeeaaaase? x

  My face was stuck in a grin as I typed:

  Hey Leigh. What you up to? x

  . . .

  Hold on. I’m calling you. x

  Calling… Oh, shit. I dropped my phone in horror. Was I in a fit state to receive a call? Unlikely, but not much I could do about that now. I hit ‘accept’.

  “Hi!” Leigh grinned at me.

  “Hi.” Urgh. My hair was stuck up all over the place. I attempted to smooth it with my hand.

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “Y…no, actually. Why?” Silly question.

  Leigh’s left—right? I was never sure with the camera flip—eyebrow went up. “You suit the spiky look.” Left eyebrow: same side as their lip pier
cing.

  I laughed, embarrassed but not. “D’you think?”

  “Yeah! It’s very punk. Whatcha listening to?”

  “Pink. The Truth About—” ha, that was apt “—Love.” I found the remote and turned it down a little. “How’s your day been? Busy?”

  “Just a bit. Two lectures and a seminar, and we’ve got this group project due in before reading week, plus an exam the week after.”

  “That’s heavy. What’s the project about?”

  “Well, it’s ongoing, and this is just the first bit. We’ve got to decide on an engineering firm to study and then write a report on what they do. I’m quite excited about it, or I will be, if we can agree on a company. I said we should go with the eco car company Sol’s done some work for, but everyone else wants to do Rolls-Royce, just because it’s Rolls-Royce.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Sorry. That’s really boring.”

  “Not at all. Carry on.” I could’ve listened to Leigh all night.

  “Nah. How was your day?”

  I nearly did it. I managed the fake smile and nod and almost said ‘fine’, but… “Awful.”

  Leigh’s nose crinkled and their eyebrows drooped in a sympathetic frown. “Oh, Jesse. Why? What happened?”

  “I went to the weight management clinic. It’s kind of…soul-destroying? They’re supposed to help me adopt a healthy lifestyle, but it just makes me…” I sighed. I hadn’t intended to offload, but maybe that’s what I needed, because it made my decision for me. “I’m not going back again.”

  “Good.” Leigh’s expression was resolute on my behalf. “You don’t need to.”

  “But I want…” to surf and swim and go on fairground rides and so many other things. For people to stop staring at me, or at least stare for the right reasons.

  “What do you want?” Leigh asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Come on, tell me,” they encouraged gently.

  “I want…to not be fat.” I looked away from the screen, at the ceiling, at my Pink poster, the door—anywhere but at Leigh’s beautiful, kind face. “I’m sorry.”