“Uh, no, not really,” I said.
I hadn’t been for a gynecological exam for more
than two years, and I’d forgotten how awful it was to talk to a stranger while I wore
nothing but a napkin. I believed that seeing a woman would make the visit to a new doctor
easier. But woman or man, doctors always had a profound effect on my sweat glands. The
moment I had started to undress, the faucets opened, and by the time Dr. Miller (not her
real name) burst through the door, I was drenched and sticking to the table beneath me.
I can’t remember what she said after the question
about my size, but I can remember with vivid detail my pitiful, almost apologetic,
response.
“I’ve fluctuated all my life,” I began,
“but I’m pretty content now. Well, I guess I wouldn’t mind losing weight,
but I’ve tried everything. I just believe some of us are born to be this way, and I
really am happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
As I mumbled on about my various sizes from childhood
through adulthood, I completely forgot about the persistent pain I’d been feeling in
my right side for more than a month—the reason for this visit. Meanwhile, Dr. Miller
went through the motions of a typical exam, but she was obviously preoccupied with the
subject of my weight.
As she probed around my gut trying to feel my ovary, she
suddenly stopped with a sigh and said I’d have to come back for an ultrasound.
“I can’t feel anything through all this
fat,” she said with cold matter-of-factness.
“Oh,” I said dumbly. “Okay.”
I could feel a well of tears forming in my throat, but I
held it back the way I’d been trained to do in front of strangers. Before Dr. Miller
left the room, I managed to say, “Can we talk? I have a few questions for you.”
I was worried that I might have cancer or something
equally devastating, and I was hoping to get more information and a little reassurance.
“Yes,” she replied curtly. “And I have
some questions for you. Come to my office when you finish dressing.”
After composing myself and getting dressed, I followed
the long hallway down to Dr. Miller ’s office.
“Come in,” she said without looking up from my
chart, where she was feverishly scribbling notes. We spent the next half hour discussing
my eating habits, my lifelong struggle with depression (and how that was probably due to
my weight), and a diet she would like me to try, supplemented by evening primrose oil and
vitamin supplements. The burning question that Dr. Miller posed to me was, “Are you
willing to change?”
We never got around to my questions.
Standing at the receptionist’s station waiting to
schedule my ultrasound, I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck.
Yes, it’s all so clear now, I thought. I’m
fat. I’m fat. Yes. That explains everything.
I had not fallen so deeply
under this spell for years. Despite the fact that I was healthier than most people I knew,
had maintained a steady weight for probably five years, and was getting treatment for
depression from a top-ranking psychiatrist, I stepped right into Dr. Miller’s trap.
Though this woman knew nothing about me but a number on the scale, I allowed her to
undermine my whole sense of self.
I cried on my way home that day.
A week later, as Dr. Miller pushed the ultrasound device
around my uterus, she described the landscape.
“Ah, you have a lot of gas,” she commented
with what seemed like a laugh.
My ears burned red with humiliation as I tried to avoid
the gaze of the nurse attendant standing by. I sensed her trying to do the same.
“There’s a huge band of blood built up around
your uterus,” Dr. Miller noticed, more to the point.
“My period is a little late,” I said,
“Could that be a sign of pregnancy?”
“Women of your size produce too much
estrogen,” she responded, “and this often results in the buildup of blood in the
womb. I can give you something to get your period started.”
“But my period isn’t usually late,” I
protested.
“Well, there’s a tendency in overweight women
to have irregular periods,” she replied.
“But I have been this size for years. And I could
set a clock by my cycle,” I futilely persisted.
“Well, all right, we’ll do a pregnancy
test,” she said with a ho-hum attitude, “but I will give you a prescription to
get your period started.”
On her way out of the examining room she said,
“Wait until you get the results of the test before you start taking the
medication." Then she briskly closed the door behind her.
I cried again on my way home, and threw myself onto my
bed when I got there. I felt paralyzed by self-loathing and by a persistent fear about my
still unanswered questions.
My size had not been an “issue” for me for
years. I had come to accept what God had given me, even to enjoy myself, and to stop
postponing life until that blessed day when I lost X pounds or fit into size Y. Yet,
less than two hours in a doctor’s office had reduced me to a self-hating,
self-doubting, hysterical mess. Maybe she’s right, I thought. Maybe there is
something wrong with me. Maybe I’ve just been fooling myself that this excess weight
doesn’t really matter. She’s a doctor, after all.
After a prolonged bout of tears, my husband calmed me
down enough to get me thinking straight again.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he
said, trying to soothe me. “Give me her number. I want to call and give her a piece
of my mind.”
“No,” I protested, “I’ll be all
right.”
In the midst of the emotional chaos, I had almost
forgotten about the pregnancy test. That night in bed, I finally broached the subject with
Tom.
“You know how we’ve been talking about having
kids someday?" I started tentatively. “Well, what would you think of doing that
sooner rather than later?”
He looked at me in surprise. “What do you
mean?” he asked.
“I mean, what about, in, say, eight months?" I
smiled.
“What?”
“I took a pregnancy test today. My period is late.
We should find out by tomorrow or the next day.”
I couldn’t tell if I saw joy on his face or
absolute terror, but he smiled and hugged me and held me for a long time.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
The next forty-eight hours passed like molasses through
a sieve. No amount of mental rehearsal could have prepared me for the moment I got the
call.
“Sioux?” the nurse asked after I picked up the
phone.
“Yes, this is Sioux,” I said, my sweaty palms
already losing their grip on the handset.
“This is Mona from Dr. Miller ’s office, and I
have the results of your test.”
Gulp.
“It’s positive,” she beamed through the
phone.
“Positive?" I said, confused. I thought of the
rabbit and what it meant if the rabbit died. Did the rabbit die or didn’t it, I
wondered in a split second.
“Yes, positive,” she repeated. Then she added,
“You’re pregnant!”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” she
continued in the absence of any response from me.
“Oh, yes, yes. I’m just in shock. Thank
you,” I said, flushed, smiling, and a little sick to my stomach.
“Congratulations,” she said before hanging up
the phone.
“Thanks again.”
