I'm just so...so sleepy. My body feels like a block of bricks stacked up upon one another. I can't even think about moving or getting up from the position I'm laying in. As I slowly open my eyes, I'm staring up at a white wall. My senses begin to gradually return, and just like something out of a movie, I notice all these tubes and wires connected to my body. I'm laying down in a bed, a beeping sound going on and off. I look over and see a line going up and down upon a screen, which I'm unable to realize at this point is my body hooked up to life support.

          "Where...where am I?" I mumble, again just like something out of a movie.

          "Hello, Declan," another unidentified voice says.

          I follow the sound of the voice, slowly looking over and seeing a tall man with brown hair dressed in all white looking at me.

          "W-who are you?" I ask, still trying to gain my senses and awareness back.

          "My name is Doctor Orwell," he replies, his arms crossed with a serious expression plastered across his face.

          It takes a moment for me to acknowledge him, before asking again, "Where am I?"

          "Saint Matthew's Hospital. The seventh floor on Wing C to be exact."

          I pause, feeling anxiety grow within me, as I'm having a very difficult time recalling how and what led me to this place. "What happened to me?"

          Doctor Orwell takes a moment to respond, another serious yet sympathetic look on his face. "You've suffered from a very serious heart attack, Declan."

          I feel more worry, starting to slowly remember the events that took place in the Taco Bell. I recall the little girl making me so happy at first and giving me hope, only to crush it under the soles of my feet by commenting on my massive body. I also remember the horrible pain in my chest, and how it felt like my heart was about to explode, which now makes sense after hearing my diagnosis. I can't believe it. I nearly ate myself to death...literally.

          "How long have I been here?" I ask.

          "Almost two days," Doctor Orwell replies. "We had to put you on life support, considering your veins were clogging and your blood pressure was beyond extreme."

          There's a moment of silence between us, the gratitude and thankfulness beginning to spread within me that I'm still alive on this planet. I know I talked about how I wanted to die, but now that it nearly happened, I'm very glad it didn't, despite how bad I've messed my life up.

          "Like I said, Declan, you're very lucky to be alive. Considering there was intense traffic and the ambulance took an extra twenty minutes to get there, I'm very surprised you made it. I'm so sorry to tell you this, but you should be dead."

          And just like that, two familiar, yet longing individuals enter the room in a sense of panic and disbelief—my parents—who I haven't seen in person in nearly a full year, due to them handling business over in England.

          "Declan!" they say together in unison, both in deep relief I'm still alive, yet simultaneously in utter shock at the size of me.

          And finally it's happened. They have found out the truth about their once so-deeply talented son. Just like in the Taco Bell, I can barely breathe. It hurts so much to know that I let them down. But I'm so surprised. I remember all the times I thought how mad and angry they would be about finding out the truth. However, they don't look mad, they don't even look disappointed—but just like the time I dropped my textbooks back off at Mr. Ramen's classroom at the university—they just look...sad.

          "Oh my gosh, son," my mom says, getting teary at the sight of me hooked up to all the tubes and wires. "We're so happy you're still with us."

          "We got on the very first flight when we heard the news," my dad adds. "Thank God you're not dead."

          I feel a tidal wave of relief as I hear they aren't angry with me, yet I can't help but still feel somewhat guilty for what I've put them through.

          "Why didn't you tell us, sweetheart?" my mom asks, her sniffles growing with every passing second.

          "I...I—I—" I pause, trying to find the words as another tear starts to form out my right eye. "I didn't wanna let you guys down."

          "Son," my dad says, giving me another sympathetic look. "Basketball comes second. I don't care if you were about to go number-one in the NBA draft, we'd rather see you alive than making all the money in the whole wide world. We love you so much—don't ever forget it."

          I start crying more as I hear his words. After nearly dying, I've never had more gratitude in my entire life to hear their voices and be reminded that I'm loved by them.

          "Thank you so much," I say. "I love you both, and I want you to always remember that."

          My parents embrace me in a hug, having difficulty wrapping their arms around my fat, massive body, but it's still a great feeling. We hold each other for nearly a full minute, so glad that I didn't let them down, at least not to the degree I felt I had. After we finish comforting one another, Doctor Orwell steps in.

          "So," he begins. "Now we have to focus on moving forward. I think it's fair to say you have a pretty serious eating disorder, Declan. You're 341 pounds, and you nearly just lost your life to your disease."

          I nod my head, agreeing with him. There's simply no point in denying anymore that eating excessive food is not a battle I can conquer on my own.

          "Sometimes for people going through addiction, a near-death experience can help them see their lives more clearly and address the fact they are in denial and have a problem. For example, if a drug addict overdoses and has that same near-death experience, he or she may want to consider not using, and get their life back to a place where they feel they are in control. We have many treatment options for you, and can send you to a rehabilitation centre that specializes in eating disorders. What do you say, Declan? It's now or never. You almost died once, and next time you might not be so lucky."

          I look over at my parents, seeing their desperation.

          "Please, Declan," my mom says with those sad eyes.

          "Do it for us, son," my dad agrees. "But more importantly, do it for yourself."

          I glance at them once again, then back to Doctor Orwell.

          "Okay," I reply, admitting that next time I could end up six feet under, buried in my grave. "I'll get help."