My yearly physical is this afternoon.
My doctor usually has a medical student working with her which doesn’t usually bother me. The intern takes my vitals and asks a few questions before my doctor swoops in. Cool.
All cool until last year, that is.
I don’t have an OBGYN. I get all my lady-doctor exams in as part of my yearly physical. This is always a nice treat for the poor medical student who thought she would just be typing a few answers into a computer and taking some vital signs.
Not today, kid. That’s right. Yank out those stirrups and fetch me the paper gown of shame.
While my doctor examines me, she’ll relay to the intern what she’s doing. Yes, even while she’s in there. Okay, yeah, awkward but not horrible. Frankly, those tables are kind of comfortable and I rarely sleep well at night so…whatever. Take your time. I’ll be up here possibly napping if you need me.
But, last year, one year and 19 days ago, I heard this, as my doc was rooting around inside whilst pressing on my belly: “It’s easy to feel even with obese patients…”
As soon as she said it, I saw every coach I’ve ever had shaking his head in shame. I heard phantom whistles beckoning me to the end line to run some sprints, fatty. I heard the ghost of every chicken that was ever slaughtered so that I could gluttoningly consume its body, breaded and fried with a side of blue cheese, laughing as their day of Karma finally arrived. I felt the insecurity of the girl I was at 19, hell even 29, who believed the size of her body was directly related to the amount of love she deserved.
I’ve made no secret out of the fact that I’ve struggled with my weight since turning 35. Before that, I could just not eat carbs for a few weeks and everything went back to where it was supposed to be. Not so anymore. Everything went to shit seemingly overnight at 35. (This year, the transition from 39 to 40 has seemed to involve a lot of new joint pain. Yay!)
But in the year leading up to last year’s exam, I worked hard to lose the extra weight. And I did! I was almost 20 pounds lighter last year than I was the year before. I thought this was cause for celebration.
My doctor thought it was cause for letting me know, via verbal notes to her med student as though I wasn’t even in the room, that I am actually obese. While she was still palm-deep inside me.
Jesus Christ, lady. You couldn’t have waited until you were out of there before giving me the good news? Or maybe started with “overweight” to see how I took that and went from there? It was a pretty good date right up to that point. Yeah, I have some extra weight I could stand lose but I had no idea I was considered obese. I still don’t think I’m obese. I mean, I’m not running up and down a soccer fields anymore but I walk and hike quite a bit still. What an awful word: obese. Obese. Obese obese obese. Obeeeese.
It doesn’t help that my doctor is one of those people who [mocking tone] eats right and exercises regularly [eye roll] and is maybe five feet tall with shoes on. A bad day for her would be topping the scales at 100 pounds. My five foot nine, obese ass looks like the Stay Puft Man beside her and will still even if I somehow reach the target weight her hilarious charts suggest for me which, frankly, would involve a whole lot of me starving myself. (19-year-old me approves of this strategy.)
By the time most of you read this, my exam will be complete. Keep your fingers crossed for me that this year’s exam goes a bit smoother. At a minimum, that there is much less commentary while she’s up in there.
May the odds (and the potato skins) be ever in my favor.