My doctor usually has doctor assistant trainees. The last two times, they’ve been young guys. The most recent one wasn’t as bad as the one before him. In fact, he was a gem in comparison. Almost polite to a fault. But he did struggle to take my blood pressure, which caused some mayhem. Enough so that the doctor had to come in and try taking it before they made a determination whether or not to call an ambulance to whisk me away to the ER. (See? Mayhem.)
Luckily, I was fine. No emergency hospital visit needed. But before I knew it, I was having a deja vu flashback to the visit prior.
“Why do people make it so hard?”
The time before, the trainee was arrogant AF. (Pardon the language, but that’s the best way to put it.) He asked what I was doing about my weight, as in trying to lose it. He didn’t ask if that was a concern or if I was trying to lose weight. He just assumed I must be.
I explained I’d been trying for over 30 years but had recently decided to abandon that quest. I mean, 30+ years of trying and failing? I’m over it. Plus, dietary and gastrointestinal issues that no one can seem to figure out complicate things, making it very hard for me to lose. Much less eat in general. Most importantly, my weight doesn’t impinge on my lifestyle at all, whereas my dietary issues do.
“It should all be in my notes,” I pointed out.
He did one of those “pfft” dismissive noises and said, “It’s a simple matter of you’re not expending more calories than you take in. Why do people make it so hard? It’s not. Quit making excuses and just eat less and move more.”
Excuse me?!
I was livid but somehow maintained my composure. I explained that even when I was undergoing chemo and eating nothing, I plateaued and couldn’t lose anymore. Believe me, I was trying. I’d never been so close to my goal weight. With chemo’s help, I was trying to get there. Until my oncologist chastised me and said my extra weight had actually come in handy. My body had had something to fall back and use for energy when I was too sick to eat.
“Whatever you do,” he implored me, “stop dieting! This is not the time!”
Anyway, instead of verbally assaulting the trainee, I calmly said, “It’s nice you want to think it’s as simple as ‘eat less, move more,’ but I’m living proof it’s not.”
The Doctor’s Turn
I actually love my primary care doctor. She reminds me so much of the one I saw during the chemo years, who I hated to stop going to. However, her front desk staff was abominable, and then I had an unfortunate run-in with her nurse practitioner. (Which, if I’d listened to her advice, I’d have undergone two unnecessary surgeries for what were misdiagnosed maladies on her part.)
Anyway, my current doctor is also a rare breed who takes time, listens, and doesn’t dismiss my concerns. Mostly. She does have a block when it comes to my weight.
After conferring with her trainee, who must’ve said something about me being resistant to hearing about my weight, she came in and said, “You know, you’re on Ozempic. You could nudge up your dose a little to lose the weight.”
Yeah, and then what do I do if my diabetes needs more control? Just keep going up and up and up?
No. I’m going to stay on the lowest .25 mg dose for as long as possible. Or, even better, get off of it altogether if I ever can. That’s goal number 1. Not being vain about my scale number!
Because my weight doesn’t hamper me. Other people’s stigmas and judgments about it do.
Oh, yeah. That’s the other conversation I have every visit, with both my doctor and her trainees: “Do you exercise?”
Fat People Can Be Fit People
I’ll never forget Wayne’s reaction the first time he saw for himself the bias I face about my weight. At that time, I was playing tennis three to four times a week, going to yoga three times a week, and walking every day. I definitely wasn’t living a sedentary lifestyle. I had the FitBit numbers to prove it. 10,000 steps a day for me was a light day. I was routinely logging between 15,000-20,000 steps a day.
I’m also very good about my portion control, although at that time, I did often battle a mean sweet tooth. But while I may have indulged in a little treat of some sort every day, we’re talking like a square or two of chocolate, maybe a scoop of ice cream here and there. At worst, a slice of cake every now and then. I wasn’t eating whole pies or downing cookies by the dozen every day or anything.
Still, that damn nurse practitioner insisted I was overestimating both my amount of exercise and my eating habits.
“No, I can attest to the fact she’s as active as she says,” Wayne interjected. “She really does walk a minimum of two to three miles a day, upwards of five on weekends when we’re together. And she’s at tennis for a minimum of an hour and a half on clinic days, longer on match days. And if you saw her play, you’d realize how athletic she is. She’s a state champ for a reason, after all!”
I’ve never been more proud of how he took up for me.
The nurse practitioner huffed and conceded that he had no reason to lie to her.
But every single appointment, my current doc and her trainees each ask, “Are you exercising?”
And then, as if they don’t believe me when I say, “Yes,” they ask, “What kind of exercise do you do?”
Are they hoping to catch me off guard as I try to come up with some exercise to lie to them about? That’s what it always feels like.
And, just like when I laid it out to the nurse practitioner when I tell them what I do, they look like they don’t believe me. Although, 10,000 steps a day doesn’t always consistently happen now. A bum hip limits me to logging two miles on most walks, but I do venture a little further on weekends. I’ve also traded in tennis for pickleball, and am not as disciplined about doing yoga. And though I’m not as consistent about it as I’d like, I also enjoy a Supernatural workout here and there. Not only for the cardio but also for the positive affirmations.
Anyway, Wayne and I get out and about and enjoy being active, whether we’re taking a walk, taking the sailboat out, or playing pickleball. Do I have a physique that suggests I’m more active than I am? No. And I’m okay with that. Now. That wasn’t always the case, but my 50s self accepts it with aplomb.
Particularly because it works to my benefit on the tennis and pickleball courts when opponents underestimate me based on my size, which I welcome. Because that’s the other workout I get: a great big belly laugh when they react to getting schooled by the big girl.
Hmm. Maybe I should challenge my doctor to a pickleball game…
Staying active and eating less is part of a normal diet; however, there are those people that it might not work if the conditions are right. I think you need to take every patient into consideration and not group them together as one patient who had these symptoms. Everyone is different. I love it when insurance companies tell me that most people stay in the hospital for this long with this issue. I, like yourself, am not like most people, I am the weird one in the bunch. They don’t make allowances for that either, because some bean counter is trying to meet the bottom line, I am sure. You take care of you and don’t worry about them. Some of them are quite overrated in my opinion.
Okay, I both love and hate that you are also “the weird one in the bunch,” Susan. I love that you can relate and I’m not alone, but I hate that you also know that feeling. And I love your encouragement and support. THANK YOU for that and for taking the time to leave this comment!