PATRICK CARMICHAEL WAS USED to people staring at him. Back in his school days, kids routinely called him ‘the Beached Whale’ or ‘Jabba the Hutt’. But there was something about today’s situation, that he happened to be sitting in a modern air-conditioned waiting-room, surrounded by people of similar size and bulk, bad skin, dated, ill-fitting clothing, and questionable body odor, that made their stares that little bit more disconcerting.
Looking away, Patrick picked up one of the glossy promotional magazines handed out at the reception desk. Inside were photographs of models so slim, muscular, and dynamic, representative of success and desirability, he couldn’t help but feel chastened once more, that even pictures in magazines had been taken to mock and humiliate him, to show him that he wasn’t like everybody else, that he was ugly and repulsive, undeserving, that he had no right to do the normal things normal people did.
Quickly discarding the magazine, he thought back to the television commercial he saw three weeks ago, advertising the clinic’s unique new treatment. That day had been another tough one at the office. At lunch-time, he heard Zac from Legal talking about him again: 'Apparently, Patrick from Accounts is so fat that when he goes sunbathing down by the beach, the tide has to wait for him to move before it can come back in again.' Later, on the bus home, two school children had teased and tormented him for the entirety of his journey. Turning around in their seats, they puffed out their cheeks and pretended to toss vast quantities of invisible snacks into their mouths. As soon as he got back to his apartment, he sought solace in the one thing that had never let him down: food. And it was there, sprawled out on the sofa, stuffing a plate of fresh cream cakes into his own mouth, that an almost supersonic burst of sound ripped out of the television speakers, grabbing his full attention. He looked up to see a ridiculously tanned, well-groomed, well-dressed, white-toothed, almost pixelated apparition of a middle-aged man appear on-screen, sat behind what looked like a desk in a doctor’s office.
'Do you suffer from the most dangerous medical condition on Planet Earth? Are you one of the millions of global citizens struggling with obesity – the single most prolific killer in modern society – scourge of our sterling medical services? Then why not call your local Cancer Diet Clinic today for a free consultation? Our radical new slimming techniques, using state of the art carcinogenic treatments, will help you shed those pounds in a matter of weeks, and help you become the person you so desperately want to be.'
With cream dribbling down his chin, Patrick looked on in a daze. 'Cancer Diet Clinic?'
Never had he heard of such a radical treatment before. And he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Over the years, he’d tried and failed at nearly every single diet plan ever devised. Each night he would scour the internet for hours, trying to find a weight-loss program that would finally work for him. How had something this revolutionary escaped his notice? Was it dangerous? Expensive? Ethical? Picking up his portable device, he typed the clinic’s name into a search engine, only to be bombarded by pop-up videos of patients testifying to the Cancer Diet’s effectiveness…
'I lost one-hundred and fifty pounds in nine days.'
'This treatment changed my life.'
'I went from Big Miss Undateable to Little Miss In-Demand.'
… interspersed with before and after shots of men and women holding up their former baggy clothing, items which dwarfed their new shapely, slimmer selves. And it was this, the promise of losing so much weight in such a short space of time, more than anything else, that persuaded Patrick to book himself an appointment.
***
“Firstly, Mr. Carmichael,” said Doctor Joshua G. Featherknuckle, “I’d like to thank you for signing up for your free Cancer Diet consultation. You won’t regret it, believe me. Secondly, I’d like to ask you, frankly, how long you’ve suffered from serious weight problems?”
Patrick shifted uncomfortably. “Well, to be honest, it’s –”
“… a long-standing issue?” Featherknuckle finished for him. “That’s not uncommon – far from it. In fact, the vast majority of our patients have suffered from morbid obesity since early childhood. And suffered really is the operative word here.” He paused significantly. “Now, how much do you know about our unique treatment?”
“Erm, well, not a lot, to be honest. I visited your website, but didn’t really learn too much about what the program consists of, exactly, other than the fact that it seems to have worked for a hell of a lot of people.”
“That’s okay. It’s not a test.” He flashed a reassuring grin and rested his perfectly manicured hands on the desk. “Let me give you a little bit of background information to help you make an informed decision. In the last thirty years, treatment of all kinds of cancer, from minor skin lesions to the most aggressive tumours, has advanced exponentially, to the point where the disease is now considered only slightly more serious than the common cold. In particular, our founder and CEO, renowned specialist, Doctor Ryan Longfellow, undertook some rather unorthodox research work, to see if the aggressiveness of the disease could be utilized to mankind’s benefit. The results of which form the basis of the Cancer Diet Program.”
Patrick blinked in confusion.
“I know this is a lot to take in, Mr. Carmichael, so let me try and simplify things. We have devised a unique and effective treatment to eradicate all forms of obesity. By harnessing a cancer cell’s devastating properties, we can now eliminate fat cells in adults and children at a quite astonishing rate. It really is a miracle of modern science.”
“But – but is it dangerous? Are there any risks, side-effects? Is surgery involved, chemo or –?”
“No, no, no. Our treatment involves a series of quick, efficient, painless implants, a medical procedure requiring only a mild anesthetic and an overnight stay at our private clinic just outside of the city.”
“Just an overnight stay. Wow! That’s impressive. And how effective is the treatment, how quickly will I see results? In your advertisement it said something about weeks. But surely that was an exaggeration. I mean, I weigh in at nearly three-hundred pounds. Surely you –”
“No exaggeration at all. I can guarantee – I repeat: guarantee – that you will be down to your natural weight – and by natural, I mean that of an average man of your height, bone structure, and age group – within twenty-one days, or your money back. In fact” – he tapped away at the portable device on his desk – “I can give you a predicted figure right now, if you like. You will be one-hundred and fifty-five pounds, literally half the man you are today.”
Patrick didn’t know what to say, and just sat there wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“I take it from your reaction, Mr. Carmichael, that you’re interested in undertaking the procedure. If that’s the case, I can offer you a special discounted rate if you book with us today and are able to undergo the treatment in the next week. Do you have any employment or family obligations that would prohibit that?”
As it happened, Patrick’s department had just finished a comprehensive audit of his company’s financial practises. This was a rigorous four-month-long assignment which had necessitated a lot of after-hours working, overtime, coming into the office on a Saturday or Sunday. For that reason, Patrick and his colleagues had been encouraged, instructed, even, to take extended periods of leave before the end of the year.
This he told Featherknuckle.
“Excellent.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a folder. “If that’s the case, and with your full agreement, of course, we can get the formalities out of the way, sign the contract and disclaimer and get you booked in at the clinic.”
As soon as Patrick got back to his apartment, he called his line-manager, Mr. Forsyth, and explained the situation, embellishing slightly, telling him that he would like to book a week off work with immediate effect to undergo a minor medical procedure, something he’d been putting off for years.
“No problem, Patrick. Your team has gone above and beyond these last few months. You deserve an extended break. I’ll sign your leave card and send it over to HR this afternoon.”
Two days later, Patrick arrived at the clinic at the designated hour. After signing another disclaimer, he was escorted to a compact, well-appointed private room by a rather sullen yet nonetheless helpful young nurse.
“If you’d like to take off your clothes and slip into the gown provided.” She pointed to the garment neatly laid out on the bed. “Dr. Rosenthal will be with you in ten minutes to talk you through the procedure.”
The doctor, a slight, serious-looking man of around fifty, arrived promptly.
“Good morning, Mr. Carmichael.” He shook Patrick’s hand limply, almost reluctantly. “I’ll be performing the procedure this morning. Now I take it you’ve followed all the instructions on the information sheet provided – you haven’t eaten in the last twelve hours, taken any prescription medicines, or drank any caffeine or alcohol.”
He shook his head.
“Great. And how much have you been told about the procedure itself?”
“Just that it’s very effective and consists of a series of implants under the skin. Then again, I suppose that’s the definition of an implant, isn’t it?” Aware he was rambling, he chuckled nervously. “Sorry. What I mean to say is I know it’s a simple, straightforward procedure.”
“Yes and no,” the surgeon said with worrying vagueness. “There are certain risks associated with any medical procedure. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
He smiled, but there was something about the way he quickly lowered his eyes, like a child after telling a throwaway lie, that unsettled Patrick.
“Now, if you could lie back, please, with your arms out to the side… that’s it. I’ll show you exactly what we’re going to do. Here” – he put a hand under each of Patrick’s flabby arms – “we’ll insert two large implants containing unique carcinogenic cells. Then we’ll insert additional implants around the midsection, thighs, and buttocks. That’s seven implants in all.” He stood and straightened. “The procedure should take around forty minutes. All being well, you will experience nothing more than light discomfort. But this should pass relatively quickly. After the procedure, you’ll be brought back here to rest. We recommend that you stay overnight, but if you feel up to it, if you’d like your own bed, feel free to call someone to come and pick you up at any time.
“In regards to aftercare, I must warn you, in the sternest terms possible, that you may encounter some problems, you may feel quite unwell for a good few days, as the cancer cells start to attack the healthy cells in your body. For that reason, you’re going to need a loved one on hand to watch over you, to help you medicate yourself. Do you have a partner or…?”
These kinds of what Patrick saw as loaded questions – does a fat boy like you really have a girlfriend? – had always embarrassed him. In the past he’d often lied rather than revealed the fact that he was emphatically single and, unless some miracle occurred, always would be. And even though he was talking to a trained medical professional about a medical procedure, he found himself lying freely now, perhaps dangerously.
“Yes, yes, that’s all taken care of.”
“Great. In a moment, the nurse will be through to prep you for theatre.”
At first, after being given what the nurse called a ‘local anesthetic,’ Patrick felt a little giddy, giggly, light-headed, just like he had when she spoke to Dr. Rosenthal. Then he started to have trouble focusing on the things going on around him. His external world became no more than sensations, fractured images, aural transfigurations – eyes staring into his, calm, authoritative voices, the swish of surgical gowns, hands over his body, lifting his arms, legs, behind. Then everything went black. Then he heard someone say, far clearer than anything that had gone before it, ‘Right, that’s it. Great job, team.’ And he was being wheeled out of the theatre.
Back in the private room, he felt more grogginess than discomfort. All he could really remember were the two orderlies who helped get him up onto the bed. Drifting in and out of fuzzy consciousness, he soon fell asleep.
When he awoke a few hours later, he hauled himself up into a sitting position and patted under both arms, his flabby belly, lifted his haunches and checked his behind, but couldn’t detect any sign of the implants at all.
Feeling nothing more than a desperate need to go home now, he pressed the nurse call button.
“Are you all right, Mr. Carmichael?” asked the same nurse as before, ducking her head into the room.
“Yes, fine,” he said. “I think I’d like to go home now, though. Could you make the arrangements?”
“Of course. If you’re sure you feel up to it, I’ll have one of the orderlies help you with your things.”
To cover his embarrassment, Patrick told the talkative young man who helped him with his overnight bag that a family member (he left this deliberately ambiguous, open-ended) was going to meet him in the car park outside.
“You sure, sir? You sure you’re all right? Don’t take offense, but you look a little peaky.”
But he assured him that he felt fine, and he did – just a little spaced-out from the anesthetic – and that he just wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight.
It was during the taxi ride home that he started to feel sick, nauseous, like he might vomit right there in the backseat, making a complete fool of himself. He could almost hear the cabby’s snide remarks: ‘One slice of pizza too many, was it, chief? Well, I ain’t cleaning it up, that’s for sure.’ Holding back his surging stomach, therefore, became a massive challenge, one he was determined not to fail. Looking out of the window, he tried to concentrate on the streets flashing by, the color, make, and model of the cars and lorries, the faces of people on the pavements, going about their daily business, in and out of shops, cafes, bars, supermarkets. He tried to invent little narratives for them, backstories to their lives, what they were doing, where they were headed, if they were in love, married, if they were really, truly happy, all to take his mind off his delicate stomach.
And it worked – for a time.
Once inside his apartment, he rushed to the bathroom and vomited like he had never vomited before, retching so violently, projecting such a worrying mix of blood and bile, it really scared him. He thought that he was having a seizure or stroke, that he might not make it through, that he might not live long enough to see the results of the procedure, that he’d never have the chance to be a slim, normal person, just like everybody else.
When the sickness had finally subsided, Patrick shuffled through to the main living area, opened his overnight bag, and took out the aftercare kit the clinic had provided. Inside were instructions on what medication to take, in what quantity, and at what time.
“‘Follow these instructions carefully,’” he mumbled to himself. “‘Failure to comply could result in serious medical difficulties, in both the short- and long-term. Day One. Take two pills every six hours, one suppository every eight hours. Drink herbal infusion before administering medication.’”
He took one of the sachets from the pack through to the kitchen, boiled the kettle and mixed the contents. While waiting for the drink to cool, he leaned an elbow on the work surface, yawned, and closed his eyes.
“No, no,” he cajoled herself, shaking his head from side to side, “can’t fall asleep just yet.”
He walked back through to living room, switched on the television, and flicked through the channels until finding a late-night news show featuring two sombre-faced intellectuals discussing the dangers of false news reporting.
“Better take these two now,” he said to himself, popping the pills into his mouth and washing them down with the neutral-tasting herbal drink.
As he placed his cup on the coffee table, he looked at the little clock in the bottom corner of the TV screen: 03:29. Doing some mental calculations in his head, he felt it might be safe to grab a few hours’ sleep now, after all, sleeping through to what would be his normal time, and then taking up the full aftercare program tomorrow.
In the morning, well, early afternoon was probably a more accurate description, he yawned his way out of bed and stumbled through to the bathroom. As he stood and urinated, he realized that his belly and thighs were nowhere near as thick and flabby as they had been when he climbed into bed in the early hours of the morning.
“Jesus!”
Bounding back through to the bedroom, he checked his reflection in the mirrored doors on the wardrobes built into the wall.
“I can’t – I can’t… believe. I…” he trailed off, staring at himself as if he was staring at a stranger.
The Cancer Diet. It really was a miracle.
In a dreamy daze, he showered and dressed, inserted the suppository in as dignified a manner as possible, and walked through to the kitchen. Picking up the aftercare information sheet, he read the Day Two instructions: two more pills every six hours, another suppository, each to be washed down with the herbal infusion. The final paragraph read:
Eat only light meals three times a day. Suggestions: one soft boiled egg, a small serving of rice or pasta, buttered toast. Avoid: caffeine and alcohol.
“Right.” He did a few more mental calculations. True, he may not have strictly adhered to the aftercare plan yesterday, he may have missed an infusion and inserted the suppository a little late, but the results had been so spectacular, he couldn’t see that being a problem.
For the rest of the day, he followed the instructions to the letter, taking the pills, inserting another suppository, and drinking the herbal infusion each time. Soon it became hard to control his excitement. Although he told himself it was ridiculous, that his mind was playing tricks, it was as if he could literally see himself getting thinner with each passing hour. It was all he could do to stop himself from dashing through to the bedroom, pulling off his clothes, and checking himself out in the mirror again. With painful clarity, he remembered all those times as a chubby teenager, watching his classmates walk hand-in-hand with girlfriends, the tender intimacies, the furtive glances, secret smiles, those brief kisses and hugs. And how badly he wished the weight would literally fall from his body, that he could unzip her fleshy fat-suit and step out into the world as the real Patrick, the beautiful person he was inside. Now, incredibly, twenty years later, it looked as if that metamorphosis was finally about to take place, that he was finally going to be the person he always wanted to be, just like the man had said on the Cancer Diet advertisement.
As day turned to night, the weight really did fall from his bulky frame at an astonishing rate. Every hour, he religiously went to the bathroom and stood on the once-dreaded scales to weigh himself. Two-hundred and forty pounds quickly become two-thirty-five, no, two-thirty. In one three-hour period, he lost close to twenty-five pounds, putting him under the two-hundred-pound limit for the first time since he was seventeen.
Yet the side-effects were still severe. Food was difficult. No sooner had he bitten into a thin slice of toast than he had to rush to the toilet to vomit again. Nothing like yesterday’s heaving, retching maelstrom, but unpleasant enough to make him wary of putting anything else into his mouth.
That night, as he lay in bed, subject to shivers, feeling fluey, delirious, still a little sick, he swore that he could hear the cancer cells working away inside his body, with an almost perceptible hum, like an army of worker ants constructing (or perhaps deconstructing would be a more apt description) their own flesh and blood ant farm. It reminded him of a horror movie he had seen one Bank Holiday about man-eating piranhas attacking a predictably moronic group of American teens, how they devoured supple young flesh, tearing it from the bone in seconds. That’s what it felt like, like he was being eaten from the inside out.
Day three passed in the exact same fashion. When he woke up, he pulled off his pyjamas and stood unashamedly naked in front of the mirror – something he could never have faced a handful of days ago.
“My God!” he cried. For he was almost completely transformed now. Gone was the flabby belly that used to overhang the waistband of his boxer shorts like a bulging wineskin. Gone were the huge pendulous man-breasts. Gone were the wobbly chins that used to make him feel so self-conscious when he spoke.
Dropping to his knees, he fell face flat on the thick carpet and cried, sobbed, howled, rejoiced. It was all too much, too overwhelming.
He was still crying when he got into the shower, still crying when he towelled himself dry. It was only when certain practicalities started to dawn on him, like the fact that the fresh boxer shorts he’d brought through to the bathroom now drowned him, like a child playing dress-up, did he finally manage to calm down.
He rested her hands on the sink and spoke to his refection, “Whatever am I going to wear?”
Too weak and uncertain to venture to the shopping district, Patrick spent the rest of the morning ordering a whole new wardrobe online. In a breathless credit-card frenzy, he bought Levi’s jeans, Ralph Lauren polo shirts, two designer suits, genuine Italian leather shoes, even a muscle top he never thought he’d purchase in a million years. It was all so surreal, picturing himself as one of those hunky models in the Cancer Diet Clinic’s complimentary magazine. And if it truly is better to travel than arrive, Patrick spent the whole afternoon, and a good portion of the early evening, shuttling to and from the front door, signing for all those same-day delivery purchases.
When the very last package had arrived, he conducted his own personal fashion show in the bedroom, trying on each and every item, strutting up and down in front of the mirror with all the sophisticated nonchalance of a seasoned catwalk model, hand on hip, throwing back his head.
That night, he went to bed with such a big smile on his face, his jaw started to ache. Clearly, in his mind, he could see himself going on dates, wining and dining lots of different women. No. Not different women but that elusive Mrs. Right. Clearly, he could see himself in a warm, secure, loving relationship with a beautiful, intelligent, sensual woman, someone who loved him with all her heart. Clearly, he could see herself as the father to two, maybe three children. Clearly, he could see a joyful, happy family life.
Next morning, he woke with the same smile on his face, and a warm fuzzy feeling deep inside. He didn’t even have to look at himself in the mirror, he felt so light, healthy, happy, hopeful. But when he stepped onto the bathroom scales, as he had so often in the last forty-eight hours, he was shocked to discover that he was now down to one-hundred and twenty pounds, maybe a little less. This worried him. Since returning from the clinic, he hadn’t eaten a single piece of solid food. He was scared to. All that vomiting had made him wary of swallowing anything at all. He didn’t want to have to go through that again. But by the same token, he knew he would have to eat something soon, that, in all likelihood, his dip below his optimum weight was due to this prolonged fast.
With more than a little trepidation, he dressed in one of his more casual new outfits – a polo shirt and jeans – went through to the kitchen and made himself two slices of toast. When the toast popped out of the toaster, and Patrick had lightly smeared each slice with a low-fat spread, he experienced a shudder of what he could only have described as revulsion. He found it almost impossible to reach for a slice and put it into his mouth. It was one of the most painfully ironic moments of his life. For he recalled all those gluttonous binges – the big takeaway pizza orders (buy-one-get-one-free) the tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream, the fries covered in mayonnaise, chocolate bars, crisps, cream cakes, egg-fried rice, chili dogs (three at a time). Eating had been the only thing that he had excelled at, but now he couldn’t bear to nibble away at a simple slice of toast.
But he knew he had to do it; knew he had to eat. If he didn’t, he’d ruin everything, he’d never be able enjoy his new self, his new body.
Only when he tried, he had to rush straight through to the bathroom, where he was as sick as he was when he got back from the clinic that first night.
Truly concerned now, he trudged through to the main living space, found the clinic’s helpline number, and booked himself in for an emergency consultation.
***
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Carmichael,” said Dr. Featherknuckle, “but I’ve just had a look at your x-rays, and you’ve entered into what we at the clinic call a ‘state of terminal non-reversibility.’ Put simply: you’ve allowed your cancer to advance too far.”
“What do you mean?” he cried. “I felt a little under the weather this morning, that’s all. I’ve found it difficult to eat following the procedure, but I’ve never looked better. Surely there’s something you can do, an operation or a course of medication. Remove the implants. You told me yourself that cancer was no more serious than the common cold these days.”
“It’s far too late for that. By not following the aftercare instructions to the letter – which you were advised to do, and in no uncertain terms – the cancer cells have metastasised at a quite prodigious and hugely destructive rate. Your whole body – organs, bones, skin – are alive with malignant tumours. Your prognosis is fatal. I’m afraid you’ve only got a handful of weeks to live.”
Patrick couldn’t believe it. Only yesterday he was buying a whole new wardrobe. Only yesterday he was dreaming of going on romantic dates, of meeting the love of his life, of settling down and having a beautiful family.
“But, please, don’t panic. Undoubtedly this is an unfortunate circumstance. But when you really –”
“What! You tell me I’ve got only weeks left to live and you call it an ‘unfortunate circumstance’! How dare you. I’ll sue. I’ll make you pay for this if it’s the last thing I do. You’re evil bastards, peddling your quick-fix cures, dreams of rapid weight-loss, teasing people in with promises of the perfect body, without really explaining the dangers to –”
“Mr. Carmichael, please,” he talked over him. “We at the Cancer Diet Clinic have undertaken tens of thousands of successful procedures. Patients who followed the aftercare instructions – which, by your own admission, you didn’t – have experienced no problems whatsoever, have gone on to live happy, fulfilling lives. You must look at this philosophically. For the first time in your life, you’re thin, reasonably handsome. For a few weeks, maybe a month, you’ll be able to live a normal existence. And I say that in all sincerity. For we can provide you with medication – at no additional cost to yourself, I might add – that will offset all the debilitating symptoms of your illness. You will, therefore, be able to live a normal life, right up until the moment you die.”
“What – what do you mean?”
“Just that,” he replied. “That you won’t feel sick or in any way lethargic. To the unknowing eye, you will appear to be a normal, healthy, if a little underweight man in his mid-thirties. And when you really think about it, what we have given you is a rare and beautiful gift. For what was your life like before? – miserable, full of self-hatred and reproach, binge eating. I would wager a bet that your former self couldn’t walk down a street or ride a simple bus without being subjected to a torrent of abuse. I would wager a bet that you used to cry yourself to sleep most nights, so traumatised were you by those incessant taunts, those cruel words. So why not simply enjoy what we have given you? Go out into the world as the new” – he paused for a moment and glanced down at the file open on his desk – “the new Patrick, enjoy yourself, drink champagne, eat the rich calorific foods you love so much, safe in the knowledge that you will not put on a single pound of weight, indulge in one-night stands with women who wouldn’t have looked at you twice a week ago.”
His words had a demoralizing effect on Patrick. He knew that this had happened because he didn’t have anyone in his life that he could trust, anyone to watch over him in those crucial first twenty-four hours when he returned from the clinic, no friends or family to help ensure that he took the correct medication at the correct time. His solitude and reclusion had proved decisive in the end. In wanting to become slim and attractive to meet that someone special, he had done nothing more than hasten on his own lonely death.
“But I – I only wanted to be just like everybody else.”
“And you can, Patrick. Only for a shorter period of time than expected. So enjoy, embrace. Life is, after all, but a fleeting, fragile thing.”
— NEIL RANDALL
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