Sunday, September 12, 1999
123 pounds later, friend celebrates new life
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
In fourth grade, Bill Buxbaum got stuck in his classroom chair. When Bill got up for recess, his thighs wouldn't let him leave. The teacher sent for some Vaseline from the nurse's office. We laughed.
We entertained ourselves by making pig noises when Bill was around. We asked him if he could see his feet. We sought his advice on the best ice cream, because who would know better than Bill?
For my friend MacGregor, it was airplane seats. He weighed 370 pounds. When MacGregor settled into his seat, those around him groaned. “When you're big, people think you're lazy,” MacGregor is saying. “They're thinking, why can't this guy take care of his problem?”
If you are not fat, you do not think about certain things. Eating a pizza, drinking a beer. Shopping for pants. Swimming. Getting in and out of your car. Who's looking at you. And why.
“That look of disdain,” MacGregor calls it.
He'd be embarrassed at restaurants. He'd be embarrassed at malls filled with clothing that couldn't hold him.
MacGregor used to play a little ball. Last summer, he tried playing third base in a softball game. He couldn't bend over or move quickly enough to field ground balls.
He was Bill Buxbaum, all grown up.
I'm not fat. It's an accident of heredity. It's not because I eat properly (I don't) or exercise religiously (not usually) or have a swift metabolism (beats me). I am not fat, as far as I can tell, because nobody in my family is fat.
At 6-foot-3 and 370 pounds, MacGregor was “morbidly obese,” the doctors said. Being fat is painful, a constant pressure on the muscles, bones and joints, but the physical discomfort couldn't compare with what was spinning inside his head.
He was depressed, anxious and ashamed. What he did about that was eat. “When an alcoholic's depressed, he'll drink,” he says. “I would get depressed over my weight and eat for comfort.”
We've always celebrated great bodies but never more than now. Young, slim actors dominate Hollywood. We have plastic surgeons on speed-dial. Gyms are full. Restaurants give fat and cholesterol numbers on menus.
MacGregor saw all that, and himself in the mirror. In December, he went for two weeks to the Duke University Center for Living, joining a group of overweight, corporate stressers. The doctors told him to eat well and exercise.
He has lost 123 pounds. He has gone from a size-60 sport coat to a 48, a 5X shirt size to an extra-large. Last month, he went to a “normal” men's store for the first time in eight years.
He took a load of clothes to the Salvation Army, a 38-shirt tribute to his past life. MacGregor says that when he reaches his goal weight of 225, “I'll get on the scale and cry hysterically.”
We didn't accept the old MacGregor. Because of that, he didn't accept himself. The weight loss has given him pride and confidence. It has also given him pause.
“The appearance part of it is wonderful,” he says, “but I have the same soul I had nine months ago.”
MacGregor kept the size-60 suit coat. It hangs on him now like a bedsheet. “I feel like I'm starting my life all over again,” he says. His message is simple:
“If you have a problem, you can deal with it.”
If I saw Bill Buxbaum now, I'd tell him that. I'd also tell him I'm sorry.
Paul Daugherty, an Enquirer sports columnist, writes a Sunday lifestyle column. He welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
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