Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 62)

I wasn’t sure you’d come back.

I wasn’t going to. But then I got to thinking about what you said last time.

Now let me see... Ah, yes, the bit about singing.

Let’s just say I’m ready, well, metaphorically speaking, anyway.

That’s a start.

Not to my people, mind you. Not yet. I figure if I practice a little here, it will be easier later.

So, what do you hope to get out of this session?

I want to finish reading my piece to you ‒ rather, my grandmother and the rest of my relatives.

Time grows short.

Right. Well, here goes. I’ve even given this thing a title: “The Big Diet.” The big diet, the diet to end all diets, the liquid diet, doctor-approved and clinically tested for safety. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself for this one; I was 37 years old and of sound mind, more or less, but I was also desperate and felt out of control. Do I blame all of you?

I honestly don’t know.

As Shel says, I am responsible for what I do to myself.

I drew in my stomach and marched to the hospital outpatient clinic. I announced to the receptionist, “I want to go on the liquid diet. NOW!” Of course, it wasn’t all that easy: my family physician had to approve ‒ which he did only under extreme duress.

“I don’t believe in diets like this one,” he said as he scribbled his name on the consent form, “but I do believe in free will, even when people choose to do stupid things to their bodies.”

That hurdle overcome, there were tests to be taken: blood to be drawn, electrolytes to be measured, urine to be checked, body fat to be pinched, excess pounds to be calculated, pre-existing conditions to be ruled out, and head to be shrunk. Couldn’t have crazies embarking on such a grueling odyssey, now, could we? Little did I know that in 12 short weeks, the word “crazy” would become a relative term....

But who could predict the future?

Then, the phone call: “Samantha Mallory? You have passed with flying colors! You are bonafide fat and healthy! Come in tomorrow!”

Okay, so I exaggerate on the exact wording.

I jumped up and down and raced through the house with utter and complete joy, screeching, “I’ve been accepted! I’ve been accepted! I’ve been accepted!” You’d have thought I’d been inducted into Mensa or some other elite organization, not the diet program from Hell.

Poor Shel. I can only imagine him shaking his head, but he’s always supported me in my diet and other ventures ‒ even if he disagrees with the basic premise of my beliefs.

But then, what choice does he have? I’m a Mallory, after all.

And you all know what that means.

I started a journal after bingeing on my last meal ‒ uh, perhaps you’d like to hear it?

It’s your call, Samantha.