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My older sister had a beer belly. She died of a heart attack two years ago. She was 62. I have the same belly. Same diets that never worked. Same "just get more exercise" advice from my doctor. Same blood pressure creeping up year after year. After the funeral... I went looking for what killed her. What I found is the reason my jeans fit again. And the reason I'm writing this. ======== Her name was Carol. She was a librarian for 28 years. Divorced. Two grown sons who adored her. A rescue beagle named Gus. Made the meanest margarita on the block. Terrible at parallel parking. Could finish a Sunday crossword in under an hour. She was the smart one. The one who knew a little bit about everything. She was 62 years old. She should still be here. ======== Carol started gaining weight around her middle in her late 40s. Got put on a low-fat diet. Her doctor said it was just middle age. Said to cut the calories and get on a treadmill. Said the weight would come right off. It didn't. The belly she blamed on the glass of wine she had each night. The fatigue she blamed on long hours at the library. The brain fog she blamed on getting older. The swollen ankles she blamed on the summer heat. Her blood pressure started creeping up at her annual checkups. Her doctor called it borderline. Said they'd watch it. Watched it for ten years. Carol used to call me after those appointments. Defeated. Saying she was eating "rabbit food" and running on a treadmill but her pants kept getting tighter. I told her the same thing every time. "If your doctor says it's fine, it's fine." I wish I could take those words back. The last thing she told me was that she'd bought a new pair of elastic-waist pants. She said she was done even trying to wear jeans anymore. She laughed it off, but I could hear the defeat in her voice. Two months later she was gone. ======== It was a Saturday afternoon. Her son Mark called me from the hospital. He was crying so hard I couldn't under
