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Veronica Roselle is
supersized. Her voice, low, a little husky - she smokes Parliament Lights
seemingly by the carton - has got quality and quantity. Veronica projects,
and she speaks in long, torrential paragraphs. She’s got a huge heart,
and she wants to know your problems (she gives good advice, she says). If
you start to cry, big, fat tears will well up in her eyes, too. Her
aesthetic is grand. She drives a mammoth gold Lexus SUV. Her apartment in
Long Branch, New Jersey, with its wraparound terrace and sweeping view of
the Jersey shore, is magnificent: wall-to-wall marble, big gilt-framed
mirrors, an army of figurines, a customized armoire so enormous,
Veronica’s not sure she could get it out were she to move, a turquoise
baby - grand piano, a chandelier over the splash-pool-size bathtub -
Veronica really knows how to fill a room. You can’t avoid her, to be
honest. Intense is the word that comes to mind. And obese - or severely
clinically obese, if you want to be severely clinical about it - is the
other word that would have come to mind a few years ago, before Veronica
performed a rare act of reduction and lost 220 pounds. Now a lean, toned
139 pounds, at five feet seven, she’s thin - skinny, even. But Veronica,
who’s thirty-seven, can’t bring herself to describe her body in such
small-person terms. Instead, she’ll say she’s "more
slender," or "slimmer," as though she doesn’t want to
downplay, or perhaps forget, that her waist once measured more than five
feet around and that her unquenchable appetite drove her to eat quarts of
lo mein and gallons of ice cream and boxes of doughnuts until she passed
out.
Veronica’s family looms equally large. In fact, it’s a wonder the
Roselle house never exploded, given their collective expansive energy. Joe
Roselle, Veronica’s father, six feet two, silver-haired, gravel-voiced,
sits, walks, and talks like a man who’s done very well for himself (and
he has, as the owner of several waste-management companies). He calls
women he’s only just met "babe," and it seems entirely
appropriate. In fact, you’d be disappointed if he didn’t call you
babe. Veronica’s brother, Peter, younger by only eighteen months, has a
similar BMOC confidence. Tall, dark, and handsome, Peter was president of
the student body and his fraternity at New Jersey’s Monmouth College
(which he and Veronica both attended), and so popular growing up, Veronica
says, that their house was the place to be.
The Roselles were happy to be de facto chaperones, and this is probably
because of Veronica’s mother, Anita, who loves a holiday, a birthday -
any excuse to throw a party. When Anita isn’t out attending to one of
her five charities, she’s entertaining family and friends at her home
along the Navesink River in the posh hamlet of Fair Haven, New Jersey. She
keeps a telephone on a stool next to her seat at the kitchen table so she
can answer it - and it rings constantly - without leaving her guests.
Anita, who has also struggled with obesity and overeating, recently
followed her daughter’s lead and became "more slender." But
before she lost those eighty pounds (and counting!), Anita’s gatherings
featured insane, laughable (Anita herself chuckles about it) quantities of
food: ten different appetizers, followed by six entrées (chicken, shrimp,
and artichoke française, a family favorite called "steak
Murphy," sausage and peppers, and perhaps an eggplant parm or some
veal), plus side dishes, plus eight or more desserts, sometimes prepared
by the Roselles’ caterer, who has also lately become "more
slender," shedding ninety pounds in four months. If Anita’s sister,
Marie Pellicone, came by, she would bring a few more salads and desserts,
along with her husband, Tony, and two daughters, Dina and Denise. All four
Pellicones, by the way, are also much "more slender" these days,
having lost a combined 345 pounds.
That’s how it was: Veronica was a fat girl, in a fat family, living in a
fat world. So how did Veronica, Anita, Marie, Dina, Denise, Tony, the
caterer, and, for that matter, three other Roselle family friends all
become "more slender" after years of losing and gaining back
weight? They had gastric bypasses, a.k.a. stomach-stapling surgery. While
the operation is still viewed by many as lazy or vaguely freakish - not
incidentally the same kinds of adjectives often used to describe the obese
- it is actually both extremely painful (compared to, say, the SlimFast
plan) and increasingly common (it’s even got a celebrity endorsement by
Carnie Wilson). Its growing popularity is probably due to the surgery’s
phenomenal success rate: More than 80 percent of recipients lose and keep
off an average of 60 percent of their excess weight for a decade, while
almost no one who uses traditional methods does the same. Also, there’s
been a marked increase in candidates: Nearly two-thirds of Americans are
now overweight, according to the Centers for Disease Control, and 27
percent of that group are obese.
Perhaps the real question, then, is how did the Roselles, like so many
other Americans, get so fat? In truth, it’s pretty shocking how little
we know about the physiology of appetite, satiety, and metabolism. We’re
discovering the basics: The brain makes us start or stop ingesting based
on stomach receptors that tell the hypothalamus what we’ve eaten (fat or
protein) and how much; glucose levels in the blood track the amount of
energy we have available in the form of carbohydrates. The brain also
sends and receives messages about our long-term energy reserves: Fat cells
emit hormones called leptin and adiponectin (among others, scientists
think) that indicate how much fat is stored. Depending on whether we weigh
more or less than our genetic "set point" - more a range than
one number - we will be encouraged, on a neurological level, to eat more
or less. Metabolism may also be influenced by these signals - speeding up
when we surpass our set point, slowing down when we fall short. And this
explanation is cursory. Besides reproduction, food intake is the most
basic requirement for the propagation of the human race, so the biological
mechanisms that govern it are among the most evolved, with many
redundancies and a preference for conserving energy. In other words, our
evolutionary mandate is to err on the side of overweight rather than
underweight.
Still, for the most part, the obese exceed even the upper reaches of their
genetically determined weight range. They’re actually overriding
nature’s design in some way, consciously or not: They may have a defect
in the appetite-signaling process - something hardwired in the brain. Or
they may have learned to use food to compensate for an abnormally low
number of dopamine receptors, which regulate feelings of pleasure and
satisfaction, in the same way addicts rely on drugs, alcohol, or
cigarettes. (Intriguingly, the antidepressant bupropion, which influences
dopamine and has been approved by the FDA as an antismoking medication,
was recently shown to help people lose weight.) Much is possible,
scientists say, and very little is proven.
The Roselles are a prime example of how difficult it is to tease out the
causes of obesity, and of how likely it is that no one factor is in itself
responsible: Was it their genes? In addition to the six family members
already mentioned, another cousin of Veronica’s is one of those who
survived bariatric surgery in its early, brutal form in the 1970s.
Veronica can show you pictures of several generations’ worth of
overweight relatives. (Her paternal grandmother was a "classic
Italian grandmother, out of The Godfather - overweight, the cardigan
sweater, the hair pinned back in the bun, the boobs that come down to
here," Veronica laughs, cupping her hands somewhere around her
navel.) Then again, perhaps the family was a victim of sociological
forces. Ideas as well as DNA were passed down from generation to
generation: Food is central to their Italian heritage, a way to show love,
prosperity, and hospitality. Still, they’re not all obese. So perhaps
the explanation is psychological: Many in the family say their eating was
emotional and talk of abusing food. Of course, twin studies show that
eating disorders have a strong hereditary component . . . which brings us
back to genetics. But whatever each individual in the Roselle family
thinks his or her main problem was, they all agree on one point:
Veronica’s troubles were the most monumental.
Her story starts out typically enough: Veronica Roselle was a "big
girl" from age five on, growing up in Neptune, New Jersey, not far
from the apartment she lives in now. The tallest in her class. The wearer
of specially made, extra-large Catholic-school uniforms. The oddball, she
says. Excruciatingly self-conscious. "It was really painful to see
all these cute little girls with pigtails, and even if they had glasses or
whatever, they were just tiny and petite," Veronica says one day as
we sit at her kitchen table, picking at tuna wraps and a fruit salad.
"I was always isolated. I felt like I had no friends, no people I
could communicate with."
Veronica was also an anxious child. Her fears were such that her parents
put her in therapy when she was ten. Her younger brother’s ease with
other kids - and with his weight (he could eat whatever he
wanted)-didn’t help matters. So, in a familiar story recounted on Oprah
(and by Oprah) hundreds of times, Veronica turned to food-entertainment,
opiate, and protection, all rolled into one chocolate-coated,
cream-filled, artificially flavored snack cake. And the more she ate, the
better she felt: "Cookies, candy, Suzy Qs, Yodels, Devil Dogs. It
wasn’t like, ‘Oh, Mom, I’m really dying for steak and
potatoes.’"
Though her mother had been a slip of a girl when she got married -
"She wore a double-A bra!" Veronica says-Anita began to put on
weight after Peter was born. Peter’s girlfriend, Tiffany Weiner - a
knockout brunette with a cartoon-vixen silhouette-says that some of
Peter’s earliest memories are of pulling fudge pops out of his
mother’s mouth. "I do believe that I got some habits from my mom. I
don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’m not blaming her," Veronica
says. "I don’t remember pigging out with her. I don’t remember,
like, ‘Okay, Mom, let’s get, like, a gallon of ice cream and sit and
watch Dynasty.’ But she’d be eating the chocolate-covered frosted
doughnuts from Entenmann’s on the three-minute ride home from 7-Eleven,
so it was like, ‘Mommy does it. What’s the big deal?’"
Veronica was ten when she and her mother joined Weight Watchers together.
"My parents really did their best to help me," Veronica says.
"They kept certain foods out of the house-but it was almost like with
any addiction, which eventually, of course, it turned into. If kids in the
lunchroom had leftovers, I’d eat them. If someone had an extra Twinkie,
they’d be, like, ‘Oh, Veronica, do you want this?’" On pizza
day at school, she’d eat the other kids’ crusts.
By the time she got to high school, Veronica had grown from a big girl
into an overweight teenager, but she’d learned to control her eating -
at least in public. Instead of begging for Twinkies, she’d beg her
brother to eat them so she wouldn’t. And then, when no one was looking,
she "snuck-ate." Years later, when she cleaned out her childhood
room, she found her drawers full of wrappers from contraband Suzy Qs and
Yodels.
Her weight zigzagged up and down, depending on whether she was dieting or
bingeing (as you might imagine, over the years, Veronica and the women in
her family have tried, and failed at, in Anita’s words, "every diet
in the world, whether it was a staple in the ear, hypnosis, or Weight
Watchers"). But it wasn’t until Veronica headed off to college and
got involved with her first "real" boyfriend that she became
truly obese. "The relationship was crummy, and I ate all the
time," she says. On top of her regular meals, she kept cold cuts,
bread, and a stash of Oreos in her room. "My suitemates were like,
‘But you’re so pretty!’" Veronica says, mimicking the tone used
by mothers of girls who pierce their noses or shave their heads. And then
her weight edged over 200. "I said to myself, ‘I’m in big trouble
here, big trouble. I’m 200-plus pounds, I can’t stop eating’ - I’m
going to cry - ‘I can’t go on like this.’" She decided to make
a run for it: She broke up with the boyfriend, moved to New York, and
transferred to the Fashion Institute of Technology, where she earned a
degree in fashion marketing.
And she was happier - but still pretty fat. A little over 210. "My
cousin [Dina], who’s like a sister to me, was getting married, and I was
her [co-]maid of honor. She came to me one day and was like, ‘The
dresses are one-shouldered. And we can’t change the dresses for you.’
She wasn’t being mean. She was just being honest." Veronica had a
panic attack. "And that’s when I went on the liquid diet. . . . For
six months I ate nothing but shakes. Nothing. God as my witness. I chewed
gum. I drank diet soda. I smoked my brains out. And I ate no food for six
full months. And I exercised, and got down to like 147 pounds. Or 150. And
- I looked really great for the wedding. Everyone thought I looked just
wonderful." But the emotional "void" that she’d been
stuffing with food persisted. "So I’d fill it with shakes. ’Cause
you know what? At the end, I started compulsively overeating my
shakes."
Veronica figured out how to make the shakes into "cookies" and
"pudding" by adding less water and microwaving them. She started
eating eight packets a day instead of the recommended four. "I knew
it in my heart, I am so gross. And I said to myself, ‘It’s only a
matter of time - you’re going to fall off the wagon. And then it
happened.’" One weekend she bought some stonewashed jeans (give her
a break, it was the ’80s) for her new figure. Then she went off the
liquid diet, and by the next weekend she couldn’t get the jeans past her
thighs.
After college, she landed a great job as a promotions manager for In
Fashion, a now-defunct magazine. "I was, like, ‘Oh, well, now,
I’m not going to eat now. I’m working for a fashion magazine.’
" But her chic new environment just forced her eating further
underground: "I’d be totally professional, everyone thought I was
so on top of my job, and I was, I loved it, but then I’d come home and
I’d take the pearls and the skirt and the stockings and the pumps off
and I’d wash all my makeup off and I’d stick my hair in a ponytail and
I’d put on my sweats and I’d start ordering away." Her brother,
Peter, who’d never quite understood why his sister didn’t simply stop
eating so much - Eat one cookie, he says he’d think, not a box - moved
in with Veronica and began to see the depth of her problem. He told their
mother, "You know, Ronnie’s really anxious around food."
Veronica says it was the impatience of a junkie waiting for her hit:
"I’d get nervous around food, like I had to get it in me."
When In Fashion folded a year later and Veronica was shunted over to Soap
Opera Digest - not exactly her dream job - she fell into a depression. She
went on Prozac, but it didn’t lift her mood or help her lose weight. Now
she didn’t know how much she weighed because her scale didn’t go over
300 pounds. "I would walk down the streets of New York and I just
felt invisible, even though I was so massive and I knew I wasn’t
invisible," she says. "You go into a supermarket, and you always
think that - and people do-they look in your shopping cart." It
wasn’t just adolescent self-consciousness anymore. She heard people call
her a pig. In fact, she heard someone call her a"f---king pig."
Once, when Veronica was standing at a light, a woman in a car puffed out
her cheeks and made a fat face at her.
Eventually, she broke down in a sales meeting, sobbing, "I can’t
take this." She committed herself to a psychiatric hospital, where
she was diagnosed with an eating disorder. Veronica then checked into an
eating-disorders clinic on Long Island, but found the program and the
people - in particular her anorexic roommate, who cried when the nurses
made her drink orange juice - more traumatizing than her own issues. She
fled. Next up was a Sunrise, Florida, eating-disorders rehab, followed by
a halfway house in Tampa. But the treatments didn’t take, and after
another career disappointment and another troubled relationship with a
live-in boyfriend, Veronica found herself back on the Jersey shore. Her
parents bought her the apartment she lives in now, and she went to work
for one of her father’s garbage companies.
Life was reduced to a joyless movable feast: After throwing on her size-54
bra, a T-shirt, and leggings (no underwear - even the largest from the
Lane Bryant catalog were too tight) and maybe smudging on a bit of makeup
(if she could stand to look at herself), Veronica would jump in the car
and head straight to the 7-Eleven across the street from her building.
She’d pick up a 20-ounce coffee with cream and sugar, a bagel, two or
three Dunkin’ Donuts (she especially liked the Boston cream ones), and
maybe a sugar cookie, Danish, or coffee roll. She’d spread the food on
the passenger seat and wedge the coffee between her legs and dunk and eat
breakfast number one during the ten-minute drive to work.
Near the office, she’d stop at a second 7-Eleven, a Quick Chek
convenience store, or the Burger King drive-through to pick up her second
breakfast. "I’d bring something for my assistant, who was
eighty-five pounds soaking wet. I’d be like, ‘Oh, Dora, I brought us
breakfast.’" At around 9:30 or 10:00, a food truck would come by
for the mechanics and garbagemen. "And I’d be, like, ‘Oh,
greasy-spoon truck, let’s go.’" Soon it would be lunch, and she
and Dora would hit a Taco Bell or McDonald’s, or get a few slices of
pizza and some onion rings. "I’d be exhausted by all the junk I’d
eaten by 1:00, still have to work, and then eventually at 3:30, I’d be
like, ‘Okay, who wants to run out and grab us something?’"
She’d work until 6:00 or 7:00, and then make another circuit to score
dinner. "I’d stop and get Dunkin’ Donuts, or a pound of macaroni
and buy cheese and put butter on it, or I’d get a quart of lo mein, and
fried rice, and two egg rolls. And then I’d have to get a half-gallon or
quart of ice cream and a candy bar. I mean, I’d have it all planned out:
‘Here’s all my sugary stuff, and here’s all my salty stuff.’"
She’d strip down and pull her hair back just as she’d done in New York
(even getting undressed for these "food orgies" had become a
ritual). "I’d have the TV on, watching, like, Melrose Place, and
just sit and eat, and then smoke, and eat and eat, and smoke, and
eat," she says. "Then I’d pass out from the sugar. I mean, I
wouldn’t fall on the floor, but I’d be like, ‘Omigod, I have to go
to bed.’" She’d wake up at around 9:00 p.m. - "with still,
like, the sugar around my mouth" - and start eating again until she
cried herself to sleep or knocked herself out with a Tylenol PM. She
figures she was eating at least 10,000 calories a day, and her weight
climbed to more than 350 pounds. Everyday tasks became an ordeal.
"Taking a shower was an effort. Getting out of bed in the morning,
rolling over. It was exhausting just carrying all that weight around. You
do stuff like put off going to the bathroom because you don’t feel like
getting up out of your chair."
Finally, Veronica’s therapist suggested she spend a month at a
behavior-modification clinic in Durham, North Carolina. Unlike the
eating-disorders rehabs, where Veronica felt like a second-class citizen
(because she was fat instead of fashionably emaciated), everyone in Durham
was looking to lose, and she felt at home. She ended up staying more than
a year - at an expense to her parents of well over $50,000. They had her
car driven down for her, paid for friends to fly to visit, and went down
themselves to participate in family therapy. "People would come and
go, but I was still there," she says. "I even had a Christmas
tree." (She doesn’t want to name the clinic for fear of hurting the
staff’s feelings, since, ultimately, her treatment there wasn’t
successful.) She spent her days exercising, attending group and individual
therapy, and taking part in workshops on subjects like nutrition and anger
management. In the controlled environment, where every bite of food was
planned a week in advance and every calorie counted, Veronica shed more
than 100 pounds. But once she went home, she gained back all the weight in
two months. Anita recalls sitting at the kitchen table at the time
watching Veronica chat with her brother on the patio. She could see from
Veronica’s manner that she was self-conscious about regaining the
weight. "My heart was just breaking because I knew she was
embarrassed in front of her own brother," Anita says. "I just
wanted to put my head down and sob, just sob for her." Part of the
problem was that she was returning to the same environment, with the same
lack of purpose (besides losing weight), the same fast-food restaurants
beckoning outside, and the same family and friends. Peter compares
Veronica’s problem to alcoholism, "but a person with an eating
disorder needs food to survive." Veronica’s homecoming was
something like an alcoholic’s leaving rehab only to hang out in his
favorite bar with his drinking buddies all day. "I should have gone
back to work right away, but I felt like I wanted to focus on losing the
rest of the weight," she says. "That was my biggest
mistake." In retrospect, she also doesn’t think the clinic’s
strict three-meals-a-day program was right for her, since she’s a grazer
with, she says, an "oral fixation." Indeed, such rigid diets can
trigger binges in compulsive overeaters, says Ruth Quillian-Wolever, a
psychologist at the Diet & Fitness Center at the Duke Center for
Living (Continued on p ???) in Durham (not, by the way, the program
Veronica went to).
But once the weight came back on, Veronica began to realize that tinkering
with her diet and exercise routine was not the answer, anyway. She needed
to change everything from the inside out. She sat her parents down in her
living room one afternoon and told them they had to look into stomach
surgery for her or she was afraid she would die from her obesity, or throw
herself off her terrace. Anita and Joe were reluctant, but by now
Veronica’s desperation had become contagious. "You are helpless, as
an outsider, you are helpless against the disease that she had,"
Peter says. "It was a crazy, crazy, vicious circle; if you’d sit
there and think about her condition too long it would ruin your day, you
know? You’d stay up at night thinking about what a prisoner she felt in
her own body." Her parents agreed to accompany Veronica to an
informational session with a surgeon.
The introductory meetings at the office of Rafael Capella, MD, the Ramsey,
New Jersey, surgeon Veronica chose, are like religious revivals. Twenty to
thirty people, including potential patients and their relatives and
friends, meet in a nondescript conference room with Botero prints on the
walls outside. When Capella, a lithe, energetic man with a slight Italian
accent, strides in, the room settles down immediately: Here is their
savior. Capella begins with his experience, which is prodigious - he has
done more than 3,000 bariatric surgeries - and uses a slide show to
catalog the insults and dangers of obesity: sleep apnea, heart disease,
diabetes, incontinence, uterine and breast cancer, arthritis, gallstones,
infertility, poor quality of life, job discrimination. "It’s a
killer," he says, as a few people call out in agreement, and the
whole room nods. "People don’t appreciate how awful this is."
Can I get a witness?
And then the doctor shows them salvation. He explains the surgery with a
diagram and presents a chart detailing its results: If you weigh 200 to
250 pounds, you can expect to lose 88 pounds. If you’re 300 to 400, the
average is 137 pounds; 400 to 500, 218 pounds; and so on. As he reads out
the numbers, you can watch people do the math in their heads: 300 minus
137 equals. . . . Finally, he shows the before-and-after slides: A woman
whose features were once obscured by fat who won a beauty pageant after
surgery. A man who complained his stomach was too big to get close to his
wife later stands inside his old pants, clutching her to him. A woman
formerly glassy-eyed with depression, stains all over her shirt, now beams
into the camera. Then a man and a woman who had the surgery testify.
"I swear on a stack of Bibles that he is not paying me to say
this," the man says. By now the room is excited; people are
murmuring. An extremely obese woman ducks her head and breaks into a shy
smile. Capella finishes with the nitty-gritty: price, insurance,
laparoscopic versus traditional surgery, complications, recovery time,
side effects, vitamin supplements. When the meeting breaks up, patients
line up so fast to make appointments for evaluations, they knock over the
fake calla-lily arrangement in the foyer.
The Roselles brought their internist with them to one of these meetings.
After seeing the presentation and talking to Capella, the he said to
Veronica, "I’m not going to let you not get this surgery." And
so in March of 1999, weighing in at her heaviest ever, 359 pounds,
Veronica underwent a combination vertical-banded gastroplasty and gastric
bypass - the version of the surgery Capella favors, which involves not
only stapling part of the stomach shut and circumventing three feet of the
intestines (to reduce caloric absorption) but also inserting a band to
constrict the point at which the stomach empties into the intestines,
making patients feel fuller longer.
Her family and friends thought she was crazy - even those who eventually
got the surgery themselves. And as Veronica recovered, she began to think
they were right. She was in tremendous pain - she’d had traditional
surgery, so her whole stomach, from under her breastbone to her navel, had
been cut open - and she could barely eat at all, a few baby spoons of
yogurt at a time. Veronica would sit on her patio, breathing in the smell
of Chinese food from King Chef across the street. She didn’t know what
to do with herself if she couldn’t eat.
"The surgery can be very disruptive," says Joseph Capella, MD,
Rafael’s son, who is a plastic surgeon and works with his father,
performing both bariatric surgeries and cosmetic procedures. While the
changes can be positive - improved health, a better sex or love life, new
career opportunities - that much change at once can seriously threaten the
equilibrium of the patient and her loved ones. Couples often get divorced,
he tells me, because the compact of the marriage was based on who the
patient was when he or she was obese. One way to bring the family in sync
is to do what the Roselles did and reduce together: Joe says he and his
father often operate on one family member after another.
Gradually, as Veronica learned how to cope with her emotions and the
pounds melted off, she became increasingly delighted with the results,
even gleeful. "I would look at it in decades," she says. "I
went into the 340s, and the 330s, and the 320s; when I hit 300 and 299, I
was just, like, ‘I’m a rock star.’ At 250, I was like a huge rock
star. And then when I got under 200, forget it, I just couldn’t have
been happier." As soon as Veronica told her childhood friend Cathy
Musselman about the surgery, she told her husband she planned to follow
suit, if her insurance would cover it. She decided to use a different
surgeon and have the laparoscopic operation - which requires smaller
incisions than Veronica’s procedure but takes four to six hours longer.
That version also appealed to cousins Dina and Denise, and by June of
2000, they’d both had the surgery, using Cathy’s doctor. In July of
the same year, Veronica’s mother, Anita, went under Rafael Capella’s
knife. Then Cathy had the operation, as did Aunt Marie and a family
friend. Finally, in 2001, the caterer, Uncle Tony, and another family
friend joined the ladies.
The Roselles and their circle have been unusually successful with the
operations. They haven’t suffered any major complications - like
infection, leaks in their staple line, or gallstones - and have lost more
than the average amount of weight. Their impressive record may have
something to do with the support they give one an other. Since the
bariatrically altered are often the majority at family gatherings,
they’ve actually changed the environment (to go back to the alcoholism
model: All the barflies have dried out). They can’t eat like they did,
so they’ve developed new pastimes, such as going for walks together or
out on their boat.
The only negative side effect any of the ten have experienced is some
nausea and vomiting when they’ve overeaten or eaten the wrong thing.
Veronica has had the common "dumping syndrome" - nausea and
diarrhea usually caused by eating too much sugar or fat too quickly. But
Anita’s rheumatoid arthritis has virtually disappeared, and her
pre-diabetic condition has also resolved, as has Marie’s.
The women need to be careful when they eat rice and pasta, because it
expands in their stomachs - but that’s all right, because what they
crave these days is salad. In fact, though they cannot physically go on
binges anymore, the weird thing is that no one even wants to. "I have
no desire for chocolate at all, and I used to eat ice cream at least once
a day - at least," Anita says, a tinge of wonder in her voice. It
could be a sort of Pavlovian response to having gotten sick when they’ve
eaten the wrong things. It could be that the angst that fed their
overeating has dissipated now that they’re thin. As Denise, who is
petite and wearing a pair of siz- 4 shorts the day I meet her, puts it:
"Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." It could even be that
the surgery somehow changed their brain chemistry. James O. Hill, PhD,
director of the Center for Human Nutrition at the University of Colorado
Health Sciences Center in Denver, says that a study comparing those
who’ve lost weight with the operation to those who did so through diet
and exercise shows that the surgery group can eat more fat and exercise
less without gaining weight, suggesting the operation may accelerate
patients’ metabolism. Other research is under way to see if it alters
dopamine receptors in the brain. Of course, the Roselle family’s new
disinterest in food could simply be the result of crude mechanics: Their
tiny stomachs allow them to feel "Thanksgiving full" - as Denise
and Veronica describe it - without bingeing.
As it becomes clearer that the risks of surgery (which has a death rate of
about 1 percent) are lower than the risks of obesity (which increases the
risk of death by up to 100 percent and causes 300,000 premature
mortalities a year), a few doctors are advocating offering the operation
to more people. The current recommendations of the National Institutes of
Health are that only those with a BMI of 40 or more (at least 233 pounds
for a five-foot-four woman), or with a BMI of 35 with serious
co-morbidities such as diabetes or heart disease, undergo the surgery (the
Roselles and their friends had BMIs over 40; Veronica’s was 56.2). At a
recent American Medical Association meeting, George Bray, MD, professor of
medicine at Louisiana State University Medical Center and one of the top
experts in obesity, suggested the requirements be lowered to a BMI of 33
(193 pounds for a five-foot-four woman). This would make as many as 15
million Americans candidates for a surgery that is now done on around
50,000 people a year.
But others remain circumspect. Susan Roberts, professor of nutrition at
Tufts University, points out that we don’t have any data on the
surgery’s long-term impact (for example, its effect on pregnancies or
osteoporosis rates), and that it’s a drastic step requiring a highly
motivated individual who will comply with follow-up care. Steven B.
Heymsfield, deputy director of the obesity research center at St.
Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York, says that while he
theoretically favors the surgery for patients who meet the current
criteria, if every one of them ran out to get it today, there wouldn’t
be enough qualified surgeons to meet the demand: "You don’t want to
create surgery mills. That could hurt everybody because there will be more
deaths, and this will discredit the surgery." Heymsfield and Roberts
are both more interested in finding a nonsurgical option (after all, they
are research scientists who work in the more delicate realm of metabolism
and hormones, rather than the stitches-and-scalpels world of surgery).
But, Bray says, medications and the like are probably at least a decade
away. And if there’s a cure for obesity available now that makes people
not only healthier but happier, can we really justify the wait?
More than any of her family and friends, Veronica admits she still has a
tendency to overeat when she’s stressed or simply lets down her guard.
One night we went out to dinner with a friend of hers, and Veronica
ordered a healthy but large meal - a Caesar salad, sea bass, a dirty
martini with lots of olives. She was telling me a story and didn’t seem
to be paying attention as she ate a couple pieces of bread before the entrée
even arrived. Not yet having any sense of how much she could eat, I felt a
little anxious and thought I detected concern on her friend’s face, too.
When the fish finally came, I watched in semi-amazement as her friend
wolfed down half of Veronica’s meal while she finished her story,
falling on her sword for her. And Veronica still had to excuse herself
from the table later because she felt sick.
She has become nearly as obsessive about her body as she once was about
snack foods. She has a special section in her Filofax where she records
her weight each week. If it goes up by even a few pounds, she’ll start a
food diary to be extra-conscious of what goes in her mouth. She has had
cosmetic procedures to remove excess skin that did not snap back after she
lost her weight (including a brachioplasty, or arm tuck, two breast
reconstructions, and a full body lift in which thirteen pounds of skin
were removed from her midsection, leaving a scar wrapping around her waist
like a belt). Early last summer she passed the exam to become a certified
physical trainer, in hopes of helping others who are heavy. "If I can
help one person, then maybe I was put through this s--t, this grief, for a
reason," she says.
Now she works at a small health club called the Fitness Company. Just
after she started the job, I had lunch at Anita’s house with Veronica,
Marie, Denise, Tiffany, and Cathy. Veronica told us a story about how, a
few days earlier, another instructor had introduced her to a class as a
new staff member. "I had on my, you know, Lycra workout pants, and
even though I have scars on my arms [from the brachioplasty], I was
wearing a sleeveless shirt," Veronica said. "[The instructor]
goes, ‘Okay, ladies, good morning, but before we start I wanna introduce
you to Veronica. Veronica, where are you?’" Veronica pantomimed
waving hello to the class for us. "And [the teacher] says,
‘Veronica is one of our new personal trainers here at the Fitness
Company, and boy, has she overcome a huge obstacle.’ And she goes,
‘Veronica has lost over 200 pounds, and look at her body.’ Well, the
women put down their weights and started clapping. And I cried,"
Veronica said, starting to cry all over again. "I can’t explain to
you how surreal it was. I just cried that all these women put down their
weights to look at my body in a positive way, in admiration, in
admiration."
By this time, the rest of the table was tearing up. Anita reached over and
patted Veronica’s arm. "Absolutely, you work hard, Veronica."
"And I do. I work really hard, and it was just like - I just said,
‘Thank you, God,’" Veronica said, her voice becoming unusually
small and quiet. "I didn’t know what else to say."
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