You don’t get to be 65 years old without knowing that carrying around excess weight matters. It matters in how I look, how clothes fit, what hairstyles work, what shape glasses to wear. It matters in how the joints feel and how the spine compresses to pinch nerves. It matters in how fast I can (or can’t) move and how my feet hurt. It matters. I get it.
This has been Medical Month with tests and assorted doctors. And I’m sick of all of them. Each office, even if connected to the same hospital system, has forms to fill out and require me to produce insurance cards and a list of current medication. No, it hasn’t changed since I saw the other doctor on Monday.
Every visit starts with stepping on the scale, which for me means not eating or drinking for at least 3 hours before going, because every ounce matters. Then they take my blood pressure and wonder why it’s high. Because you just made me get on another scale, morons.
If I’m lucky, the medical person, be it nurse or doctor, will listen to me explain why I’m there. But mostly I think they are concentrating on something else because I have to repeat what I said before they seem to comprehend it. Then they tell me that I should lose weight, eat fewer carbs, and exercise more.
Really? REALLY? You think I got to age 65 as a morbidly obese person and never heard that before? Do you think I don’t know that my weight complicates things for my joints and my heart? That people who weigh what I do chop years off of their lifespan? Do you think you are the first person to EVER tell me that losing weight would help?
You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me if you think that’s true. I have been overweight since I was 10, when I remember being put on a diet by a skinny mom. I learned to despise squash and cottage cheese because fat girls needed to eat that to help lose weight. I’ve damaged my body and my spirit by yo-yo dieting for 50 years. Massive amounts of weight, my friend. And I’ve always gained back every pound and more.
Except this time. I had lapband surgery 10 years ago and gained most of it back, but I am still 40 pounds below my top weight from before surgery. This is the first time EVER that this has happened. For me to stay at the same weight, or within 5 pounds of it, for 4 years is a MAJOR accomplishment. So telling me to lose more, to get to an ideal weight, is laughable. And it’s not going to happen.
It hurts me when you see me as just a big blob. I need you to LISTEN to me when I tell you I will eat carefully, I will try to move more, but if I die tomorrow, I’m good. I’ve counted calories and fat grams and points and protein for long enough. I can’t do it anymore.
I am more than the size of my body. I am someone who feels and hurts and laughs and loves her family and friends and her sweet cats. And if I do not lose another pound, I will not blame you if something goes wrong with my heart or my back. That’s on me.
I’m practicing being strong because I have two more medical appointments next week, and I know they will have me get on a scale before they even talk to me. I’m not looking forward to it.