Weighing in

I went to the doctor’s today for my annual check-up.

I quite like going to the doctor’s because (a) I adore my doctor (b) I can walk there – ultra-convenient (c) I can finally get answers to some of the niggling little questions I’ve been dealing with for nine months (like, is it normal for my ears to have been popping all the time, every day, for nine months? Answer: no) and (d) it’s a time that’s all about me. Just a little time, but there it is. Me time.

There is, however, one part of the doctor’s visit that I dread every single time and it is the Showdown With The Nurse.

It doesn’t matter if I have the same nurse as the year before, or a different nurse, but there’s always that moment where she asks me to “pop on the scale” and I say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t get weighed.”

The look on her face is always as though I’ve just said, “I don’t breathe oxygen.” And then, even though I’m a confident, articulate, forty-two year old woman, who has just said a very clear sentence, she has to chase it up.

“Excuse me?” or “What?” or “Never?” And I always say, “No, never.” Depending on my mood I sometimes add, “I had anorexia when I was younger, and being weighed isn’t good for me.”

And then the nurse (all the nurses) always say, “Is she OK with it?” (“she” is my doctor) and I always say, “Yes, she’s fine.” Which she is, because my doctor gets it, and, also my doctor sees me multiple times a year (my whole family attends the same practice) and she knows what I look like, and can tell whether I’m significantly bigger, or smaller, than she would expect. If I was, and she said, “I would now - for a medical reason – like to record your weight,” then I’d be good with that. But just because it’s always done? Not so much …

It’s a little thing, but it’s there, every year. And I’m someone who’s pretty prepared to deal with this. I’m someone who’s confident to insist on no weighing. I think it could be much harder for someone who knows weight is a trigger, but gets pushback on not being weighed. And that makes me sad.

Interestingly, when I had my children, with midwives, they were awesome about the weight thing from Day One. No problem at all. Never asked me to be weighed at my appointments; never worried about my weight. They measured my belly, and asked me how I was feeling, and observed the parts of my that weren’t growing a new baby, and I had two perfectly healthy pregnancies and never once knew how much I weighed.

It was great.

It’s a small thing, but I guess I’m just saying if there’s something in life that bothers you, and it’s done just because, and you’d feel better if it wasn’t done, then just ask, politely, for it not to be.

One day I’m hoping I’ll get the nurse who nods and says, “Great, fine, let’s move on to your blood pressure,” and we can skip all the awkwardness about the weight.

And, when I do, I’ll thank her.

You might also want to read Why Anorexia is so Complicated