The four walls that make up my room are all high and painted chartreuse, on the very center sits a gilded four poster bed with a mattress that turns into a lumpy curd every five years. The rest of the house that my room is associated with are three bathrooms, a dark basement with rickety thin stairs that I’ve never been in, our grand kitchen with an adjoined dining room and the bedroom where my parents sleep in, tucked away far enough from mine so that I never hear what they talk about at night.
Perhaps now that I mentioned them then I am fairly obligated to tell you about my beautiful Mother who is always immaculately perfect even if she never did stop buying me clothes that are two sizes too small and my Father who with a single glance can ruin my entire day. I used to think that he looks at me the way he does because of how different I am from my Mother but now I suppose it’s because I remind him too much of himself.
Now back to my most favorite place in the world, I love my room because it has everything I need, even a water dispenser and a secret compartment for my candy stash. At this very moment there is an easel without a canvass surreptitiously perched by my door even if I am quite sure no one else is home. From there, if you move five paces to the right you can peer through my closet even if I have nothing inside that’s particularly note-worthy. However there is my very old, very pink luggage that I haven’t seen the inside of since the last time that I went to the beach with my family. It exudes the odor of seven year old sand that never went away.
And right across my closet doors, is a big picture window that shows the sun going down and shooting its last but best lights before it officially closes the day. One of them lands squarely in my meaty hand which holds a small parcel carefully wrapped in brown paper. In discreet red characters it reads, “Delivered with care from Dalian, China” the package beats with excitement or was it me? I look down at my lardy thighs that mercilessly carry on until it turns into pudgy toes, they can barely fit in the massive leather chair I am sitting on. And so with as much restraint as my elephantine arms can muster, I delicately rip the paper, cut the box, unravel the squeaky smooth bubble wrap and I see the five differently coloured tips of my surgical stainless steel cannulas, one 120cc and 60cc catheter syringe, a plump dextrose bag and finally, the SuperLuer Smart Lock, only the best fat sucking vacuum my black market money can buy.
I traded my candy stash for saltines, procured our Medical Emergency box from the largest bathroom and swiped some of my Mother’s Percocet from her nightstand, that last one I will only use after this is over, and only if I really need it. Now that I’ve propped up my D2.5NS IV bag over my lamp, and with a cringe, attached the periphery line on my wrist, I am ready to make my first incision. I chose to start with my bulging belly, just below my navel and five inches to the left I trace a line with my scalpel a centimeter wide and the blood pools instantly on the whitest towel I could find, I turned on my super smart vacuum with the blue cannula at the tip and stabbed the hole I just made. It swiveled and swished and it quickly created a gap between my skin and muscle, my fat draining away inside the tube like reverse frosting the strawberry icing on a cake.
As my belly droops down towards my hip like a deflated balloon, I see the moist yellow kernels of the subcutaneous fat I dropped on my medical waste bag, some of which may have been from the donut I ate two years ago, and a lot of those soft squishy globules were what prevented me from going out of the house because I was too inflated to fit between the turnstiles at the subway.
Just from my belly alone, I may have suctioned off close to five pounds of pure, foul, nasty, revolting fat. Now I am going to move towards my thighs, but I have to be very careful about inserting needles in my limbs because if I puncture a blood vessel I can have fat embolism and that could mean I will most probably die. Or seroma from using a large cannula and skin necrosis where chunks of my body turn gangrenous and black, yet apart from those concerns I think I’m doing great for a first timer.
The mushy fat that drains from my thigh looks like a liquidy milkshake, it doesn’t take shape and it mixes with my blood as well as oil and water. My green tipped vacuum makes a soft slushing sound unlike the laborious mechanical heaving it made on my abdomen and it siphons off my fat with relative ease, it took very little time before my thighs resembled a dehydrated chicken leg.
I lifted my right thigh and my un-operated on left, the difference was night and day. One was the thigh of someone who can run and do things while the other was attached to someone who can’t go outside because people think it’s funny to walk around you in circles and say they’re orbiting the sun.
My last day in school happened two years ago, I’m going to tell you this story instead of the minutiae of my current procedure that is honestly, going along swimmingly. It was during my biology class and we were discussing the similarities in DNA and RNA between humans and animals like chimps, mice and just when my teacher said pigs, a girl pointed to me and said, “yes she’s so genetically like a pig I’m surprised she doesn’t oink!” it was not that her joke bothered me very much because I’ve heard funnier but then someone else in my class told her to shut up before the teacher did. I thought nothing of it until lunch when I was sitting alone as usual and then a boy sat beside me and said he really likes chocolate donuts and that I shouldn’t feel bad about being big. I offered to split my donut with him, and as we ate he told me that his name is Wilson and that he just moved here two weeks ago. Wilson said he likes it here and it seems like he just made his first friend, and then he smiled. After that day, while I was having dinner with the family, my Mother brought up the idea that it will be better for my development if I can continue my education at home. And so from that day forward, I became a homeschooled kid and I never saw Wilson, my school, or much of the outside world again.
The arms I have are aged 40 years older than the rest of me, they belong on someone who regularly plays Bingo and spends all their time watching daytime variety shows while eating a boatful of Twinkies. No ketopia. Thus, it is both a pleasure and privilege to suck the lard out of them. I take the smallest cannula I have, colored pink and turn the knob on my SuperLuer vacuum to the lowest setting and attached it to the 60cc syringe, guided along with the slightest pressure the fat steadily trails along the lines from 20, 30, 40 and then my arms go from a slight vibration from the vacuum to successive tremors and with a terrifying jolt the top of the syringe pops off and all the bloody fat shot upwards and into my face creating a huge mess. I’m lucky the vacuum has a safety measure that stops when I let go, and after applying pressure with a white towel on my arm, it doesn’t look half bad even if I did use Made in China medical tools.
I’m surrounded by the briny smell of my own emulsified fat that sticks to my hair, upper body, also my face and now I have to clean it off before I can do anything else. The bits of tumescent fluid tinged red easily comes away with one wipe but the solidified fat has a thick redolent stench that refuses to go away. I hold the kernels between my fingers expecting a pop when I squeeze it but it just squishes softly like mounds of real, creamy butter. I stand up to get a glass of water and I am surprised at how I can see my toes! My body feels sore and it’s like the droopy face of a little pug but otherwise being able to move like this gives me a sense of elation I haven’t had for a long time.
I wrap up the contents of the evening into my thick red plastic bag, with the label, medical waste. I then take my first shower as a regular sized person in our smallest bathroom, relishing the fact that I can finally fit in the bathtub if I wanted to. It has been a very tiring evening, and I don’t think I need to use my Mother’s Percocet anymore. But before I sleep, I need to do the one thing that I’ve always wanted to do but I never could.
I’m finally going down to the basement.