An alarming request to the doctor stops future medical visits

My therapist had enough of me. I knew; I knew that. Our sessions went nowhere for months.

“There’s not much we can do here,” she said. “Your baby hasn’t let you sleep in two years, your mom is dying, and there’s a global pandemic. Give yourself a break.”

It was time to take the antidepressants I had been avoiding for at least 15 of my 35 years.

Armed with a new resolve to take care of myself instead of just taking care of two young children and a husband, I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. Dr. J has served as my family doctor since I was in elementary school. He took care of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and siblings. So when he came into the office where I was sitting with greasy hair and bags under my eyes, I felt relieved. Dr. J. introduced me. Dr. J will help me.

I’m a fat person for life. I was over 10 pounds when my mother pushed me out of her body, two weeks late—accompanied by a “giant episiotomy,” she always told other women with a knowing, exaggerated look. I never got rid of being the fat girl. I went to Weight Watchers meetings at 12 and 22; I’ve gone up and down 60 or 70 pounds at a time on many occasions; I put pressure on myself to wear this wedding dress so I wouldn’t regret it in my wedding photos.

But here I was at Dr. J’s office, and now obesity was the least of my problems.

“What’s going on, Sarah?” He asked.

“I’m in therapy,” I said. “My second child wakes up every night, all night, for hours and hours. It’s been two years now.”

“The second one is coming like a bat out of hell,” he said, nodding.

“And I have no help,” I said.

Dr. J nodded again. “Your mother…” he said, knowing her dire prognosis.

“She’s dying,” I said. I could never not tell the truth. Others danced around her cancer diagnosis and acted as if she was a warrior who was supposed to defeat the same enemy that even the most advanced scientists in the world could not conquer. But I saw my mother’s agony and agony. She would have been there day and night to help me with baby number two, if she could.

“My therapist wants me to take an SSRI. I haven’t slept in two years, raising two young children in a global pandemic, and watching my mom suffer needlessly from treatment after treatment when we all know she’s in menopause. I’ve been avoiding antidepressants for a long time but I feel ready to accept that now.

“We can do it,” Dr. J said. “No problem.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. I reached down to gather my coat and bag. I felt so much relief.

“But we have to put you on the scale,” Dr. J said.

“What?” I asked. Sweat tingles along my hairline.

“The nurse didn’t record your weight earlier,” he said. “I need to write it down. Can you step on the scale?”

“Oh,” I said. “I told her I didn’t need to weigh in today. I have enough anxiety in my head now. She laughed a little, good girl syndrome even when I challenged authority. But I was proud of my previous determination to say no to things that were detrimental to my mental health, which was the obvious reason for my visit.

“No, you do,” Dr. J said. “Get up there.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I said: “No.” “I don’t want that.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Get up there. I need to write it down.”

Have you ever thought that we are all still angry 15 year olds and have never gotten over it? Because that’s what was happening when I literally put my hands on my hips and said, “Yes, who’s to say?”

“I. I do.” He said.

“What do you have for my last recorded weight?” I asked.

He checked my folder: 275.

“It’s not much different now,” I said. “I’ve always known I was fat, Doc. And so have you. But if you need my weight for potions or something, I’m pretty much the same as I was before.”

“Go,” he said, using the folder to make a grazing gesture towards the tall medicinal scale.

When I finally got on the scale, it was perfectly balanced as I said. As I got off the scale, I told myself I would never go back to Dr. J’s office. In fact, I did not seek any type of medical care for a long time after that visit.

I wish I could say this was the worst I have ever been treated by a medical professional for obesity. I wish I could say that sitting down with a trusted doctor who just listened to you say you didn’t know how to get through your day without wanting to die, and then responded to your admission of going on a powerful journey about your weight was the answer. The worst experience I’ve ever had as an visibly fat person in a medical setting, but it’s not. It’s just the most ridiculous.