“An intervention?” Mary blurted out. “You can’t be serious.”
Bill felt his face flush with anger at the flippant remark. “Yeah, an intervention. We’ve tried talking to him, but nothing ever changes.”
Bill and Mary were having yet another discussion about their brother’s worsening obesity, this time on the patio of Bill’s home, where he’d asked her to come and discuss what could be done. At forty-eight, Tom was eight years younger than Bill and five years younger than Mary, and he had lived alone in the three years since his wife’s death. On a recent fishing trip, Bill had observed that Tom’s gut was so large he was unable to fit his body in the driver’s seat of the boat. And as they’d slept in the same room at a lakeside motel, Bill had been kept up half the night by Tom’s labored breathing. At some point in the middle of the hours of snorting—and snoring—precipitated insomnia, Bill had decided that the family needed to do something besides talk among themselves about the problem.
Mary shook her head. “I can’t see it working. I spoke with his daughters at last year’s reunion, and they gave me an earful about all the medical advice Bill has received from them as nurses and from his doctors, most of which he’s ignored. They said his statin prescription had lapsed, he has diabetes and high blood pressure, and he’s been told he should use a CPAP machine and mask. All his conditions are related to his weight, but they won’t confront him for fear
