Okay, so, yes – I do believe that I could have died.

But more on that in a moment.

Consider this a bit of an update, for those who follow the personal journeys of a person who is not themselves, of the personal journey I first shared almost a full year ago (It’s HERE).

Being open and honest about myself in a public forum is something I’ve tended to avoid, seeing as how I could only imagine such open honesty leading to the kind of awkward embarrassment I’ve dreaded since taking up the mantle – unopposed, mind you – of “The Fat Kid” in elementary school.

Still, a title is a title, so I guarded it jealously for the rest of my young and then into adult life until fairly recently (see previous bout of brutal public honesty referenced above for full details).

To struggle in private is to know that retreat remains an easy option, so I chose to make a public statement about my decision not to kill myself (albeit slowly) via my spiraling weight and set about actually doing something to fix my lifelong problem.

Why the public statement?

To cut off that easy line of retreat.

Now people I knew and cared about (and a not inconsiderable amount of total strangers) knew I had embarked down this road to recovery.

(Don’t worry – We’re very nearly to the bit where I almost died. Just keep your expectations low, okay?)

Right. So, about a year-and-a-half ago, I set about trying to fix the mess I’d made of my life, and began losing weight through the radical method of eating less and exercising.

One thing I neglected to mention in that little statement of purpose last year is just how much I weighed when I finally decided enough was enough. That’s because – while I’m being honest, and all – I really don’t know exactly. Oh, and I was embarrassed. And felt pathetic about… well, everything. There comes a point when the measuring equipment in your average doctor’s office simply doesn’t register your weight. I was literally “off the scale”. Short of traveling to a local zoo for the proper one, I just started giving a number. Every time they asked, I’d tell them “415”, and they’d write it down, and we’d both be complicit in this little farce that was my health. But the one thing I do know is that my actual weight was north of 500lbs. How far north, I have no idea. Possibly Manitoba.

So, let’s just say, for the sake of argument (and a starting point), I was 500lbs at my absolute worst.

Odd that finally saying that is like another weight coming off. But there it is. Terrible, isn’t it? The weight, I mean. Disgustingly, revoltingly, pathetically terrible in ways almost too numerous to count, but I’d wager the total’d be around 500. Or so.

Anyhoo, my necessary downward spiral (weightwise) began, and about 6 months into it, I wrote that little piece about the journey and blah blah blah, one foot in front of the other. And I fully intended to update my progress every so often, for the same reasons mentioned previously. But I didn’t. Then I almost died.

Right – the almost died part. Probably going to need some context for that.

This year has probably been the busiest travel year I’ve had in my entire life, with trips to Washington DC, NYC, Austin, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Disneyland, San Diego, Atlanta, DisneyWorld, Florida, and London. Quite the run, eh?

But let’s zero in on the Atlanta-DisneyWorld-Florida portion, which occurred over the course of a little over two weeks in late August/early September.

After a 10-hour drive, I spent a week in Atlanta at the annual nerdfest that is DragonCon, hosting panels, cavorting with friends, and generally burning the candle at both ends. Then I drove another 6 hours down to Orlando to meet up with my buddy Dana Snyder for a week of DisneyWorld and Universal Studios. A few more candles were burned. Then it was down to Melbourne, Florida to attend the Melbourne Independent Film Festival. MORE CANDLES.

Anyone who occasionally peers at my Twitter stream over the past year (or the streams of friends I’ve encountered on my journeys) will probably notice that I’m wearing a jacket in every photo. It’s a very nice jacket that happens to have a bit of a fleece lining – which is perfect for chilly weather, but not too perfect for anything over, say, 80 degrees Fahrenheit. Now, it must be said – because this story makes slightly less sense if I don’t – Florida tends to run a bit hotter than that. And more humid. Particularly in late summer. And while I was there, with the heat index due to the ridiculously high humidity, the air temperature felt like it was about 110 degrees.

AND YET, I wore this coat (not the *same* coat – I do have a few of them) every single day I was in Atlanta, every single day I was at both DisneyWorld and Universal Studios, and every single day I was in Melbourne, Florida for the filmfest.

I must be insane, right?

Possibly.

But I definitely am embarrassed.

Since I’ve already traveled this far down candor road, I should let you know that while I’ve lost massive amounts of weight, there’s a terrible legacy that can’t be lost. Consider it my body’s scarlet letter marking everything I inflicted on it for decades.

Take a balloon. Notice how it looks when it’s new, prior to inflation. All small and smooth. Now blow it up as much as you possibly can, short of bursting. Now tie it off, and let it sit around for a few weeks, until it slowly deflates. Now take note of the saggy, baggy latex left behind. Hey HEY! THAT’S ME!

Short of expensive surgery, there’s probably no way I will ever be “normal”. Granted, I’ve never been “normal”, so I have no idea what it’s like to be “normal”. But I’m better than I used to be. That’s got to count for something, right?

Maybe even 500 somethings.

But that, my friends, is why I wear the jacket.

Now, back to Florida and the near-death thing.

So here I am, wearing a jacket when it feels like 110 degrees outside. And telling people who remark on that oddity (“Are you cold or something? Why are you wearing a jacket?”) that I’m perfectly fine. I’m comfortable. But I’m not comfortable, because IT’S 110 DEGREES AND I’M WEARING A FUCKING JACKET. But that discomfort is trumped by the discomfort I have about the ruined state of my embarrassing (albeit vastly improved) body, so I wear the jacket. And I have fun at DisneyWorld in spite of it. And ride rides I never dared ride before (Big Thunder Mountain! Space Mountain!), including finally going on the Harry Potter ride at Universal Studios, a landmark of self-improvement I set in 2011 when I had to turn away from the attraction’s queue at the last moment because I knew I simply couldn’t fit.

And all the while, I sweated and soldiered on, drinking water and focusing on the fun, not the fact that I was still wearing a fucking jacket in Florida in the summer and looking like a madman.

And I made it through the week at Disney, and headed to the filmfest to meet up with friends, show our movie, and stay in an absolutely stunning beach house provided by the festival’s organizer. And I’m still wearing the jacket. Like a knob.

And I wake up the penultimate day of this trip feeling like my insides were earning their Boy Scout knotting badge. After two long weeks of travel, was my body succumbing to the flu? A stomach virus? Was it food poisoning? I couldn’t figure it out, and no amount of pepto made a dent. So I was miserable. And I still had a 13 hour drive home the next day. Great, right?

Around four in the afternoon, everyone left but me, and I realized the best course of action prior to my departure the following morning was to crawl into bed and try and sleep whatever was happening away. And when I woke up at 3am, it seemed to have done the trick. So I got up, finished packing, showered, and then fell back to sleep for a few more hours prior to my morning departure.

All’s good, right? It certainly seemed that way as I loaded the car and pulled out of the driveway around 8am.

When I remembered I still had a day left on my DisneyWorld admission ticket.

And those things are expensive.

And Orlando WAS on the way north.

So, maybe I should stop, spend a few hours in the park to get my money’s worth – because, after all, one never knows when one might get the chance to go to DisneyWorld again – and then continue on my journey home.

Smart, right?

So, that’s what I decided to do. And as I was driving down the highway towards the 2nd Happiest Place On Earth, I popped a piece of bubble gum in my mouth. Within moments, the Boy Scouts were back at their knots and I was hurtling into the next gas station to wet/dry heave the limited contents of my stomach (water and a banana) for a solid 10 minutes.

Not good.

It would probably be best to slowly make my way home and figure out what’s wrong with me, rest, and recuperate, right?

I went to DisneyWorld.

I think we’ve already established I don’t generally make the best life choices.

As I pulled up to the Polynesian Resort to catch the monorail into the Magic Kingdom, I felt I had stabilized enough to proceed with my already magical day. Yet it would be foolish to wear that fleece-lined coat when I was feeling out-of-sorts. But I couldn’t NOT wear a coat because, you know, saggy baggy sad and all.

My solution?

A lighter coat!

But what’s the lightest coat I had with me on the trip?

My raincoat.

Because raincoats, as we’re all very well aware, are known for their breathability.

And so into the park I went, clad in my “light” raincoat and feeling wibbly-wobbly both inside and out.

And I went on Space Mountain.

And I didn’t die. (We’re almost there. I promise.)

I did not, however, feel very good, either. And walking in the still-sweltering heat and standing in that slow-moving queue was not doing a world of good for my constitution, but still, I soldiered on because MAGIC.

My next stop? Big Thunder Mountain. On the other side of the park from Space Mountain. A long, hot walk. And a decent-sized line to wait in when I got there. But damn it, I wanted to ride it again – just a few short days after riding it for the very first time, which was a celebratory moment marking both the weight I had lost and the now-positive trajectory I had set for my life.

But as I stood in that steadily moving line, I was not feeling good. In fact, I was feeling quite awful. Each movement toward the train car became an internal series of concessions:

“After the ride, I’ll grab some water and take a break.”

“If I can just make it to after the ride, it will all be fine.”

“If I can just make it into the ride, I’ll be fine.”

“If I can just get to the ride, I’ll be fine.”

And then I was being instructed by the Disney castmember to move up to the little mini-line of the pre-load area, when you’re actually waiting for your train car to arrive for boarding. I remember watching the person in front of me get into their car, and the little gate in front of me close, and I knew I would be boarding the next train that pulled up. And I remember seeing the next train pull up, and thinking if I could just get into the car, it would be fine – *I* would be fine. And the little gate in front of me opened. And that’s weird. And that’s awfully narrow. And then…

…nothing.

…

The next thing I was aware of, as I slowly opened my eyes, was looking up at a collection of faces, including the castmember who had waved me forward, all asking me, “Are you okay” “Do we need to call you an ambulance? Why is he wearing a jacket?” And my first instinct, because I am a fool, was to get up as quickly as possible and reply in the same fashion I had to everyone who had asked me, incredulously, why I was wearing a jacket in the blistering Florida heat…

“I’m okay!”

But I didn’t know if I was okay. I stood up – that’s good, right? – and started to walk, escorted by the castmember. And then I realized two things:

1) I had blacked out.

2) For all of the other tourists around me, I had now become an anecdote.

Still woozy, I was escorted down into and then out one of the just-returned train cars on the opposite side of the attraction (the only way out) and then down the outside ramp to a place to sit. The castmember then headed off to get me some water.

As I was sitting there trying to make sense of what had just happened, the people who were behind me in line when I went tits up exited down the ramp, having just ridden the ride that was slightly delayed by my anecdote. They came up to me and asked if I was alright. I took the opportunity to ask them what had happened, which pretty much amounted to one moment I was standing there, and the next moment I fell back into them a completely dead weight

Instant, unexpected trust exercise.

Luckily, they caught me.

I thanked them. They asked why I was wearing a jacket. I shrugged it off, thanked them again, and they moved on, anecdote in hand as the castmember returned with a bottle of water (which, oddly, they had removed the label from, even though it was an unopened bottle of Dasani obviously from the nearest concession stand).

At that point, still shaken, I realized two additional things:

1) I could have died.

2) So THIS is how you get something free from Disney.

The water was nice, but about the death thing…

After having talked to the tourists who quite kindly caught me, I recalled that before I blacked out, the gates to board the train car had already opened in front of me. I was about two feet from the metal train car. When I blacked out, I was total dead weight as I pitched backward. If I had pitched forward instead of back, I would have slammed into the train car in front of me.

If I was lucky, Perhaps I would have gotten away with bruises, or possibly even some cuts and broken bones. But, if my head had slammed into the edge of that train car or even the pavement, I very well could have died.

A magical day, right?

Not wanting to make a scene (because that’s the kind of fool I am), I finished my water and wandered off while the castmember looking after me had stepped away. That whole blacking out thing actually left me feeling a bit better, so I went and got anther bottle of water and decided the best thing to do would not be to leave the park and head home, but instead find a nice, quiet, cool ride to go on.

Pirates of the Caribbean.

And so I did, and I was feeling a touch better, so I went and got some lunch, thinking that might solidify the whole better thing. Oh, and I got some more water. And *then* I probably should have left the park and called it a day, right?

THAT would be smart.

I, however, am Ken.

So, I decided I could not leave the park until I went back on Big Thunder Mountain, because to do otherwise would be admitting something or other.

As I was advancing towards the front of the line for the second time, I could see familiar castmember faces staring at me, and imagined them quietly alerting each other that the red-jacketed idiot was back for another go at being a moron and to prepare to haul his ass out again (“Code Red!”).

But I rode it.

And I didn’t pass out this time.

And THEN I decided it was probably best to get the hell out of there and back home while I was ahead.

As many of you might have guessed, I essentially had suffered just this side of heat stroke from dehydration. Even though I believed I had been drinking plenty of water to cover for the Florida heat of the previous week, it clearly was not enough to compensate for the heat AND wearing a jacket in said heat.

There really isn’t a moral to this story. I just wanted to tell it.

I’m still wearing the jacket, because even though I’ve managed to eliminate a considerable amount of weight, the legacy of that weight remains. I’ll just drink more water, and understand that despite the embarrassment, I’m far, far better off than I was before.

And while I don’t know just how much more I weighed than 500lbs when I was in the oxymoronic position of being at my highest and my lowest, I do know that I can tell you with absolute certainty, as of the writing of this missive, that I am 242lbs and dropping.

It’s not often in life you can take as a point of pride the quantifiable fact that you’re half the man you used to be.

-Ken

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