Twenty-eleven was a really tough year for our community. We lost a lot of good, black men too soon. However, no two deaths touched me more than those of a rap icon, Heavy D, and funny man, Patrice O'Neal. Although they achieved fame in two different entertainment mediums, they both shared common elements. They both were highly respected in their fields. They were both very big men. And sadly, they both died in their forties from ailments that could have been prevented.
Heavy D died of a pulmonary embolism that formed from a blood cot in his leg during a long flight from London, where he had performed in a tribute concert to the late Michael Jackson. Now, skinny folk are septible to this, too, but Heavy was a big man with a history of heart issues. No matter how roomy you think first class is (if he was lucky to be there), you're still cramped up if you're big. I know when I fly Southwest I am forever having to stretch my leg or do something to keep the blood flowing; and I'm 5'4". Can you imagine a 6-foot plus brother with extra meat on his bones? Not to mention, he was also your quintessential yo-yo dieter. Going from extremes of weight loss and weight gain. Who knew that one flight would kill him so soon?
O'Neal died of complications from a stroke and long battle with diabetes. Again, a disease that can be managed and practically erradicated with a healthy diet. What was so tragic about Patrice's death was that he had predicted it. He had a comedic routine he did where he joked that 40 for a black man was like "177 years." He joked about his diabetes and made light of his serious health conditions. He basically said that if you hadn't set up the ground work when you "should have did it" than it was a waste to start now. That's a cop out, people. Now, I won't lie to you. The first time I heard the routine, I laughed hysterically at the sallies. They were funny! Then after he died, I tried watching that same routine again and found myself crying. Crying for him, his wife, Vondecarlo, and his daughter.
All I kept asking myself is why are our black men dying so young of these awful, yet preventable conditions. They were in their forties, for Godsakes. I mean, if this was 1900, fine. I can see it happening, can except it. But, damnit, it's 2012. They should be alive. We have the knowledge and access to better health. Good foods are readily available. We don't have to wait for the harvest. Why couldn't they be saved? My bigger concern is how are their wives/girlfriends and children coping? Is Vondecarlo blaming herself?
After the news of their deaths came my way, I began to look at my Big Man differently. Fear clamored my spine. He's 36 years old, 6 six feet tall and about 390lbs. Maybe more since he refuses to get on a scale for me. His belly is not so jolly and he complains of back, knee and foot pain constantly. My mind started to calculate how long I have with him. Patrice was 41. Heavy D was 44. Does that mean I have less than 8 years to enjoy my husband? Does that mean my son won't have his dad for his teen years, the most crucial years?
Don't get me wrong, people. I've looked in a mirror myself. I have my own demons to conquer. I battle with my weight and health problems. In fact, back in 2009, I realized this weight was not worth it anymore. So, I started to rebuild the Temple God gave me. I've slipped here and there, flatlined, but I have stayed focused on the priorities. I tried encouraging my Big Man to join me on the journey. But he waves me away with "yeah, sure, babe." I can't tell you how frustrated I get when I try to feed him good food and he balks. He is strictly a meat and potatoes kind of man. Salad. He'll nibble a salad, but no other veggies. Arg!
However, that is not the worst of it. He physically looks ill. It makes me afraid. One night, I watched him while he slept. Then I had a full-blown panic-attack, because he looked like he was drowning in his own body. If not for the haunting noise of his snoring echoing back at me through the dimness, I would think he was dead. I told him the next morning about the incident and he merely waved it off again and said, "You and Ockie will be fine if anything happened to me."
What?! Did I just hear him correctly? Did I just hear my husband, father to my son, love of my life, soul mate, just throw in the towel on his life? I could feel my head spin and my heart slam in my chest. Panic began to choke me and all I can remember was yelling at him like he was a lunatic. He couldn't understand why I was so upset.
"I don't want to grow old alone, P! I don't want to be a WIDOW at 40, or 50, or 60. I want to have you for as long as God will let me. I want to experience grandparenthood with you!"
He gave me a hug, and assured me things would be alright, but nothing's changed yet.
I know what some of you are thinking. He's a grown man. He needs to make this decision for himself. Well, it's not easy to stand by and watch someone do this to themselves and say nothing or do nothing. It was easier when I was single and had no real attachment to the big lunk next to me. But now, we have a marriage and a son and the playing field has changed. I have to fight to save him, even if he won't save himself. I don't want to be a widow in my forties. I don't want my son to grow up without his daddy because he could not control his weight. There's no honor in dying because you're fat!
The last couple of weeks of 2011 I began to think of Patrice's wife. Did Vondecarlo feel like me? Did they have the same arguments and fights? I would give anything to sit down with her and ask how she dealt with his weight, his diabetes, his stubbornness. Did she nag him everyday? Did she beg him to change? Did she hide veggies in his chilli? Did she try to regulate his sugar? And more importantly, what are her reflections now that he's gone?
I refuse to lose this fight with my Big Man. I refuse to let him go into the ground a fat man. He may have lost his mother to this awful epidemic (she was in her 50's), but I will be double damned to let my man go down like this. Y'all, 2012 is gonna have to be a year of change for Big Man.
Pray for him (and me), y'all.
Heavy D died of a pulmonary embolism that formed from a blood cot in his leg during a long flight from London, where he had performed in a tribute concert to the late Michael Jackson. Now, skinny folk are septible to this, too, but Heavy was a big man with a history of heart issues. No matter how roomy you think first class is (if he was lucky to be there), you're still cramped up if you're big. I know when I fly Southwest I am forever having to stretch my leg or do something to keep the blood flowing; and I'm 5'4". Can you imagine a 6-foot plus brother with extra meat on his bones? Not to mention, he was also your quintessential yo-yo dieter. Going from extremes of weight loss and weight gain. Who knew that one flight would kill him so soon?
O'Neal died of complications from a stroke and long battle with diabetes. Again, a disease that can be managed and practically erradicated with a healthy diet. What was so tragic about Patrice's death was that he had predicted it. He had a comedic routine he did where he joked that 40 for a black man was like "177 years." He joked about his diabetes and made light of his serious health conditions. He basically said that if you hadn't set up the ground work when you "should have did it" than it was a waste to start now. That's a cop out, people. Now, I won't lie to you. The first time I heard the routine, I laughed hysterically at the sallies. They were funny! Then after he died, I tried watching that same routine again and found myself crying. Crying for him, his wife, Vondecarlo, and his daughter.
All I kept asking myself is why are our black men dying so young of these awful, yet preventable conditions. They were in their forties, for Godsakes. I mean, if this was 1900, fine. I can see it happening, can except it. But, damnit, it's 2012. They should be alive. We have the knowledge and access to better health. Good foods are readily available. We don't have to wait for the harvest. Why couldn't they be saved? My bigger concern is how are their wives/girlfriends and children coping? Is Vondecarlo blaming herself?
After the news of their deaths came my way, I began to look at my Big Man differently. Fear clamored my spine. He's 36 years old, 6 six feet tall and about 390lbs. Maybe more since he refuses to get on a scale for me. His belly is not so jolly and he complains of back, knee and foot pain constantly. My mind started to calculate how long I have with him. Patrice was 41. Heavy D was 44. Does that mean I have less than 8 years to enjoy my husband? Does that mean my son won't have his dad for his teen years, the most crucial years?
Don't get me wrong, people. I've looked in a mirror myself. I have my own demons to conquer. I battle with my weight and health problems. In fact, back in 2009, I realized this weight was not worth it anymore. So, I started to rebuild the Temple God gave me. I've slipped here and there, flatlined, but I have stayed focused on the priorities. I tried encouraging my Big Man to join me on the journey. But he waves me away with "yeah, sure, babe." I can't tell you how frustrated I get when I try to feed him good food and he balks. He is strictly a meat and potatoes kind of man. Salad. He'll nibble a salad, but no other veggies. Arg!
However, that is not the worst of it. He physically looks ill. It makes me afraid. One night, I watched him while he slept. Then I had a full-blown panic-attack, because he looked like he was drowning in his own body. If not for the haunting noise of his snoring echoing back at me through the dimness, I would think he was dead. I told him the next morning about the incident and he merely waved it off again and said, "You and Ockie will be fine if anything happened to me."
What?! Did I just hear him correctly? Did I just hear my husband, father to my son, love of my life, soul mate, just throw in the towel on his life? I could feel my head spin and my heart slam in my chest. Panic began to choke me and all I can remember was yelling at him like he was a lunatic. He couldn't understand why I was so upset.
"I don't want to grow old alone, P! I don't want to be a WIDOW at 40, or 50, or 60. I want to have you for as long as God will let me. I want to experience grandparenthood with you!"
He gave me a hug, and assured me things would be alright, but nothing's changed yet.
I know what some of you are thinking. He's a grown man. He needs to make this decision for himself. Well, it's not easy to stand by and watch someone do this to themselves and say nothing or do nothing. It was easier when I was single and had no real attachment to the big lunk next to me. But now, we have a marriage and a son and the playing field has changed. I have to fight to save him, even if he won't save himself. I don't want to be a widow in my forties. I don't want my son to grow up without his daddy because he could not control his weight. There's no honor in dying because you're fat!
The last couple of weeks of 2011 I began to think of Patrice's wife. Did Vondecarlo feel like me? Did they have the same arguments and fights? I would give anything to sit down with her and ask how she dealt with his weight, his diabetes, his stubbornness. Did she nag him everyday? Did she beg him to change? Did she hide veggies in his chilli? Did she try to regulate his sugar? And more importantly, what are her reflections now that he's gone?
I refuse to lose this fight with my Big Man. I refuse to let him go into the ground a fat man. He may have lost his mother to this awful epidemic (she was in her 50's), but I will be double damned to let my man go down like this. Y'all, 2012 is gonna have to be a year of change for Big Man.
Pray for him (and me), y'all.
