Well I finally buckled down and got myself a physical this Monday. The doctor is amiable for the most part. Mostly I’ve been avoiding him because he’s the back-up that I got shunted to after my fabulous female PCP decided to drastically reduce/stop her practice. I’m not keen on a male physician and so have been sticking with my annual GYN appointments as my markers of health; saving any other appointments for when I really have something troubling me. (What is that again about fatties costing us tax-payers from all their use of health resources again? Right.)
Anyway. I went and even managed to avoid being weighed (despite guff from the nurse who was all “But…it’s a physical! You need to get weighed for that!” Huh. Funny but until the very last 5 minutes of our session, the doctor didn’t even notice you hadn’t weighed me. Necessary my ass.)
Again, anyway. Those last 5 minutes were the tough part. When, after all the talking and few pokes/prods/thumps to check my innards like a wine cask, the doctor goes, “Well, I guess the last thing is just the weight.” And here is where I partly win, and partly fail. I win because I stayed calm, rational and didn’t even get that stinking feeling behind my eyes prompting me to cry. I fail because after a token effort to explain that if all my other numbers are good, AND I’m exercising 2.5+ hours a week; then no I DON’T need to “reduce calories”; I just gave up and gave him “Glaze-eyed-patient-stare” until he was done proselytizing about how even with 2.5 hours of dancing that’s only a few hundred calories which, as we know, can be quickly eaten with just a bag of chips. *sigh*.
Did I bring up HAES? No. Did I fight harder to let him know that, “Uh, why are you focused on calories all of a sudden? I never said that I’m somehow overeating? Oooooh, right. That’s the instant assumption from seeing me and working to believe that if I DO dance so much each week then obviously I must be overeating to compensate and remain at my current weight.” No. Did I speak out and ask what advice he gives to those he treats for diabetes/heart disease/other Fatty-Linked illnesses who AREN’T labeled as overweight (or above)? No. I was silenced. It pisses me off; but does little good right now.
Mostly I’m angry at myself. I give myself credit for the progress made; namely in being strong despite sitting on an examining table in my knickers and the gown* while he and I basically talked for 45 minutes. But I am upset that I couldn’t/didn’t/wouldn’t do more. Like all the progress I’ve made by being outspoken here, digitally, has had a far reduced impact in my ability to speak out verbally in-person. *more sighs*
On the good/funny/frustrating note: my health numbers are all looking fabulous… except for an HDL that is 5 points lower than the desired minimum of 40. The doctor’s advice in the digital letter he sent along after the results? Diet and exercise! *headdesk* Perhaps I’m reading too much into it but honestly it felt like the doctor was almost HOPING that there would be all this stuff wrong with me so he could be all “HAH! See, Fatty?” and was almost a bit disappointed to see that I’m still otherwise a very healthy woman. (Who just danced for 2 hours in ONE DAY this past Sunday, I might add, at a local fundraiser for Lymphoma and Leukemia. Take your “calorie theories” and stuff-them!!)
*What is with that? A power-trip? Why can’t we do all the discussing and THEN he leaves for 2 minutes and comes back to me in my knickers/gown for the few minutes of prodding? I’m very much convinced it is a ploy to make the patient feel the vulnerability of their position during that nearly hour-long “exam” while the doctor remains dressed and “in-charge”