At the grocery store I worked with a woman who, if I had to estimate, was near four hundred pounds. She was in her mid-twenties, a time most people would associate with being the prime of their lives. I shall call her Missy.

Missy was a nice person and I always got along with her. However, her extreme weight made for a great hinderance. Why was she so overweight? Was it because she had some sort of medical problem which caused her to be this way? An incredibly slow metabolism? I found the answer one night when I was sent to fetch dinner. I picked up two pizzas from the shop and brought them back. One was to be split amongst four people and the other one was for Missy. The entire thing. She did offer some to whoever was interested, but she was planning on eating the whole pizza by herself. Unless she had just run a marathon, been locked in a room without food for a month, or exited a year-long coma, I cannot see why she needed to order an entire pizza. One day we sold hot dogs to make money for charity. Most people bought one, maybe two. Missy bought four.

Maybe working at a grocery store wasn't the best place for Missy. She would often walk past the bakery and mutter some comment about being a fat whale. She would refer to herself as "the big girl" and no one would jump in to reassure her otherwise because, well, we couldn't. Missy claimed she had tried everything and nothing seemed to work. Really? Everything? Don't you think if she had tried eating two slices of pizza instead of eight, it would have made a slight difference? Why do I care so much?

When I was 13 my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. I remember wondering if she would ever live to see me graduate high school or get a license. Fortunately, she received a new treatment which turned that grim prognosis into a theory. Last year they found cancer in her lung. She began treatment again. If there was ever a case of the cure being worse than than the sickness I believe cancer is it. In December my mother joined me for a walk in the park I liked to frequent. Although she was slow, she completed the trail and said she felt so refreshed and relaxed afterwards. I was excited. I invited her to come along twice a week, yet the next time I asked her to come she said she was tired. It's October, and she hasn't taken a walk since then.

My mother buys cold cuts, cake, cookies, and all sorts of junk food. For someone who beat colon cancer, processed meat should be the last item on the grocery list. I believe if she were to eat better and exercise for maybe twenty minutes a week, her condition would improve by leaps and bounds. Instead she has given in to her terminal illness. She has let the disease take over her life without attempting to fight back. What infuriates me is that the cancer which has devastated my family probably could have been prevented.

I don't know if my mother will see me graduate college. I am so adamant about keeping my health because I see the consequences of not doing so. It absolutely enrages me that my mother, who is not bedridden by any means, does not do more to help herself. She does not get fresh air. She eats junk food all the time and it drives me crazy to watch her. The only way I can deal with it is to make sure I am never, ever in her position. If I ever am diagnosed with that c-word, I will not lie dormant while it rips my body apart. I will be out there, walking the trails, even if it kills me.

When I see people overeating and not exercising I take it personally. How can they destroy their bodies like that? How can they abuse themselves in such a way? I cannot find sympathy for people who have no regard for their health or their future. I'm not saying I am perfect. I have had days where all I do is sit on the couch and eat ice cream, as I'm sure everyone has. But on the days I'm not stuffing my face I am making sure I don't die a premature death like my mother could soon face.