During an endocrinologist appointment in April of 2024, I weighed a svelte 320 pounds – the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life. I say svelte with the kind of irony only someone hauling around a quarter-ton frame can appreciate. At the time, I was taking both diabetic and heart medications and relied on a breathing machine to get through the night. Sleep was elusive.

Breathing, sleeping, walking across a room – everything was a chore. I was always tired, always out of breath, and always one button pop away from public embarrassment. I didn’t dare tuck in my shirt. At that weight, life didn’t just feel heavy; it was heavy. I realized that if I didn’t lose the weight soon, I might not be around much longer to complain about it.

I’d been wrestling with my weight for nearly forty years. Every diet attempt was short-lived, ending in a blaze of carbs and remorse. For a while, I hovered around 285 pounds – my “mesa of denial.” I stayed there for about four years, gaining and losing the same five pounds like a yo-yo with a bad attitude.

It’s here that I will point out I weighed 155 pounds the day I got married, 45 years ago. So yes, technically, I had more than doubled in size. I wondered why the wife stayed with this tub of lard.

In an act of modern medical optimism, I tried Ozempic shots to lose weight. That was a mistake. Not only did they fail to help, but they also wreaked havoc on my insides. The medication burned the nerve endings in my stomach, leading to intestinal issues best left to horror fiction. The aftermath? I ballooned up to 320 pounds. I didn’t think it was physically possible for me to hit that number—and yet, there I was, living proof that gravity always wins.

Exercise was another issue. Or, more accurately, a lack of it. At 68 years old with arthritis, every step felt like I was walking on gravel in my joints. Add to that the sedentary joys of being a writer—hours spent motionless at a desk—and you get a recipe for staying stuck. I recall going to the grocery store for my wife one time and coming home the proud owner of Aisle 6. That’s how long I’d been wandering, out of breath and lost among the snacks. If my Fitbit could talk, it would’ve requested early retirement.

Finally, I decided enough was enough. In November of 2024, I underwent gastric bypass surgery at Rush in Chicago. I opted for the bypass rather than the band as frankly, I didn’t trust myself not to out-eat a band. I needed something more… foolproof. Or at least writer-proof.

The surgery rerouted the digestive system like a back road detour: instead of food traveling the usual route, my surgeon crafted a new, smaller stomach – about the size of a shot glass that connects directly to a section of intestine lower down. In layman’s terms: there’s now nowhere for pasta to hide.

The results were immediate. My appetite shrank dramatically. Meals are now a third – or even a quarter of what I used to eat. Nighttime snacking? Gone. A handful of almonds feels like a feast. And liquids? Let’s just say I now treat soup like a full-course meal.

Best of all, I came off all diabetic and heart medications almost overnight. I also ditched the breathing machine, which had become an uncomfortable bed partner over the years. Once those things were out of the picture, the weight finally started to fall off.

As I write this, I’m down to 221 pounds, just shy of a 100-pound loss. That last stubborn pound won’t budge, probably out of spite. But I’m not complaining. I have more energy now than I’ve had in thirty years. I can tie my shoes and tuck in my shirt! I’ve started walking the golf course again, which I hadn’t done in decades, though I still refuse to chase a ball into the desert. Some things never change.

This hasn’t been an easy road, and it certainly hasn’t been quick. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m back in control. I didn’t just lose weight. I found my life again. And this time, I plan on sticking around long enough to enjoy it. The selfie below is me today, 5/30/25.