Weight: Or, the 800 pound gorilla in the room

Yo momma’s so fat, her cereal bowl comes with its own life guard.

Yo momma’s so fat, her belly button has an echo.

Yo momma’s so fat, she got more rolls than a bakery.

Yo momma’s so fat, even God couldn’t lift her spirits.

I find myself, still, really angry, hurt, and frustrated.  I probably should have continued to wait to write the follow up blog to my doctor’s appointment on Friday.  I’m sure you can guess by my intro what the content of my appointment was really about. 

So, the nurse was lovely.  She joked with me about my height (something I almost always get when I get measured) and laughed when I noticed (much to my horror) the hole in my sock.  When we got into the appointment room, while she checked my vitals, we had a pleasant conversation about why I was there.  I told her that we’ve been trying for a little over a year now and that I really wanted to talk about what might be going on and see what my options were or what the next step might be.  I told her I had charts going back to 2008 and was really looking forward to talking to my doctor. 

I sat there waiting for my doc to arrive; she’d been held up at the hospital.  When she got there, she came in just as friendly as could be.  She asked about my husband and even “remembered” that he’s from Alaska.  The moment the conversation changed to pregnancy, she left the room and returned with a bright orange BMI chart.  Within moments, the tears began to roll.  She began to list all the horrible things that could happen if I were to get pregnant: still birth, deformities, gestational diabetes, stroke, high blood pressure, low birth weight, higher risk for childhood obesity, and preeclampsia.  She started telling me a story about this woman who was morbidly obese and nearly stroked and nearly lost her baby.  She pulled out her little BMI chart and circled where I was and where I should be.  Then she started talking about diets, like restricting myself to fruit, vegetables, and plain chicken or fish.  Then she started talking about weight loss surgeries.  I told her about a girlfriend of mine who recently went through a weight loss surgery, but that there was a waiting time before I’d be able to try and get pregnant.  She told me that was true and repeated that it was still an option and something I might want to consider. 

She did not ask when my last cycle was.  We didn’t talk about that at all.  She took my charts out of my hand and set them on the counter without even looking at them.  She did not ask what Richard and I have been doing as far as trying to get pregnant.  She didn’t ask if I was on a prenatal vitamin.  She didn’t get my Authorization of Release for my blood work results, though she mentioned twice that she would.  She didn’t say one single positive comment about us trying.  She told me that she’d be happy to send me additional information about diet plans and refer me to the weight loss surgery specialist guy in Winchester.  Actually, I do think I ended up with his number.   

You know, I don’t dispute that I’m overweight.  I own a mirror, after all.  What really upsets me is that my GP was supportive and listened to my concerns.  The nurse even listened to me.  My OBGYN, however, made me feel like a walking whale.  Do I dispute that there are obviously health concerns – no.  But, wow, do I feel like the world’s worst mother for even wanting to get pregnant now.  Everything about our conversation led me to believe that my doctor does not want me to get pregnant and that I shouldn’t be trying. 

Obviously I need to lose weight.  We have been trying, actually.  Richard’s lost between 20 and 25 pounds since January.  The scale hasn’t moved for me.  Obviously I need to kick it up a notch… or two… or three.  But leaving there, feeling like a horrible and disgusting human being who should have no business procreating was not a positive experience.