“Have you gained weight?” she asks before we even reach the examination room. “Why, does it look like it?” I reply with a small, surprised smile. I haven’t, but I understand why she might hold in mind my image with a smaller frame. I have been my current weight across many doctor appointments but there was a time when I was rail thin, wracked with anxiety that had diminished my appetite. Perhaps that is the indelible memory she has of my body. The time, fourteen years ago now, that I came to her in that state she called ’emotionally stressed’ and asked her for help.
She doesn’t expect me at the weight I am now, the weight that has been added upon by world affairs, parenting a disabled teen, advocating for equity. She forgets the varied shapes I was through the nine plus months of pregnancy because so shortly after I was half that size, diminished by my turmoil. She does not recall the way my body re-regulated through the following years of attention and nourishment, becoming stronger and more solid.
“Perfect” she calls my blood pressure numbers. “You are very healthy” she comments, reviewing my last blood test results. “You’ll be doing these yearly for the rest of your life” she says in reference to the mammogram referral. I see her every six months for a physical breast exam and every time she asks me to recall the year of the diagnosis for her. It’s been 8 years now and I hold all the weight that was gained through that experience. A few pounds for the wisdom, a few for the gratitude. The weight I’ve put on through my efforts to live a lighter life.
