Nothing to See Here…

Today, I had my first mammogram.  It was lovely, a picnic, a walk in the park.  OK, maybe not all those things but it wasn’t nearly as bad as all you bitches tried to make me believe over the years.  I’m 41 and it was my first boob squish and I’m not likely to avoid them any more, now knowing that it wasn’t that bad.  Just momentary discomfort.

The boob squish was part of a larger full health screening.  I didn’t opt for the colonoscopy, thank you very much, but I got everything else.  EKGs or EEGs or ECGs or something with an E and a G, vision and hearing tests.  There was a blood draw and a peeing-in-the-cup contest.  I got a tetanus shot but no Snoopy band-aid or cookie like my kids get. 

And the stress test.

I had to get my fat ass up on the treadmill with all these wires taped onto me and strut my stuff.  The technician was very kind and gentle and talked to me like I was 3 years old.  She told me that they wanted to see my heart rate rise to 175 if possible, but if I couldn’t make it that far, that we (we? was she on the treadmill with me?) would need to at least hit 152.

Well, I was so anxious to please Glinda, the Good Witch of the North that I made it to 180 before I DIED, right there on the treadmill.  Well, OK, I didn’t die but I was pretty close, I’m sure.  I can’t wait to get the results back…

“Linda, like an eager-to-please puppy, pushed up to a heart rate of 180 BPM.  However in doing so she killed millions of brain cells and burst 7 capillaries in her eyeballs and lost all feeling in her legs, not to mention the concussion she got when she passed out with the treadmill still running.  But she surpassed the goal and earned her milk-bone so we’re VERY proud of her.”

After all the tests were done, I sat in the exam room and waited to talk to the actual doctor.  Funny, isn’t it, how three and a half hours of medical work is done by non-doctors and then he comes in and spends ten minutes with me and takes home the biggest paycheck.

This isn’t my regular doctor, of course.  It’s the doctor who is part of this ‘executive health screening’ group my company has engaged with.  So I’ve never before met him.  I knew, though, that there would be a weight talk.  There is always a weight talk.  I’m not afraid of the weight talk - I kind of look forward to getting (yet) another perspective, some more advice, some inspiration, encouragement, and maybe someday a MAGIC PILL.

He seemed like a nice guy so I was thinking it might be a productive talk.

It wasn’t.

Oh, don’t get me wrong.  He wasn’t disrespectful or condescending.  I didn’t feel any slippage of my dignity, which to me is a big deal because I have often felt that when medical professionals have weight talks with me.  I went to see a former primary care physician several years ago who reduced me to tears in about 2 seconds in his office.  He was playing tough love with me, I think.  His heart may have been in the right place, but he did way more damage than good.  I think I avoided seeing a doctor for quite some time after that episode.  It’s not the only time I’ve felt disrespected, but probably the most direct and significant encounter.

So this guy didn’t do that.  But?  He didn’t ask any questions.  He didn’t listen.  The conversation was sterile and generic and non-specific and so it was of no value to me at all.  I would have liked a meaningful conversation, to get his views in a tailored sort of way.

I suppose that’s neither here nor there.  He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.  He did recognize that the focus should be as much on WHY we are eating as it is on WHAT we are eating.  That’s not new for me, but it was refreshing to hear a medical professional recognize that.

I’d love to get behind the WHY.  I really would.  Was I not loved enough in my youth?  Do I fear the fact that I would be just irresistible if I lost the weight?  What’s the payoff for me to maintain this body?  I don’t know.

Some days, I’m sure it’s just that I like food too much, and I especially like all the yummy things that are bad for me.

Other days, I’m sure the biggest factor is the crappy hand I’ve been dealt genetically.  Oh, I know that genetics is only part of the equation, but it makes my uphill march harder than it might otherwise be.

But I’m quite sure that one looming factor is the emotional and psychological side.  It’s the hopelessness that seems to settle in and sabotage me.  Who can help me with that?  Nobody, really.  Only me. 

This doctor said that eating right (and losing weight, or maintaining a health weight) is SIMPLE but it’s sure not easy.  No shit, Sherlock.

At last Weight Watchers weigh-in, I was at about 27 pounds lost.  I think I’ve put a few of those back on.  I haven’t been to a meeting in 6 weeks.  First was the 4 week flurry of business travel and then came the Lawn Boy’s broken ankle.  I’m just full of excuses.

I’m tired all the time.  The doctor feels I’m not getting good quality sleep because the extra weight is causing a bit of apnea and that makes me tired.  The remedy for this is losing weight.  I have PCOS.  Although PCOS is said to cause weight gain and to inhibit weight loss, the remedy for lessening the symptoms is weight loss.  I’ve read that weight loss can improve sex drive.  Weight loss will increase my energy!  Weight loss will improve my comfort, my flexibility, my strength!!  Weight loss will increase my life expectancy.

Weight loss will CURE CANCER and BRING WORLD PEACE!

I want to cure cancer and bring world peace!  Why the fuck can’t I do this? 

Sigh… don’t you people just love it when I get in a fat-rant mood?  Quick, someone hire a freaking crane to lift my fat ass back up on the wagon.  I need to get back into a good place with food and exercise.  I need to de-busify my life.  I need I need I need. 

I need.

So there you have it.  In a few days, I’ll know the results of all these tests.  In the meantime, I’ll just wallow over here in my ocean of self-pity….

Still, I almost wanted to ask Michelle the Technician “Are these babies the best boobies you’ve seen all year OR WHAT???”

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