Nerves

I have an appointment with my doc today. Nothing too exciting, just my annual physical. You know, that thing that I strongly believe everyone should have? That. I had actually forgotten about it entirely until a reminder letter arrived in the mail (seriously…a reminder letter?! What is this, 1967?). 

So it’s in a few hours. Of course, in the last few days I’ve been eating more-or-less healthfully and avoiding things that are too high in fat or salt (well, except maybe for the pizza I made last night…but it was pizza made, so I’m assuming it was better than delivery pizza). Sort of like how you floss right before going to the dentist. As if you can undo all the damage your neglect has done by being especially virtuous in the days leading up to your appointment.

Actually, I don’t even know if she’ll be running any labs for me today. I suspect not, since I had her do my lipid panel last year because I was all crazy with the anxiety. And it was good, so probably no impetus to run it again. But still, cover all the bases just in case. Don’t want anything to be too high. 

But here’s the thing–my weight. My past appointments when I’ve talked about it with her, she’s been relatively supportive of me and my eschewing of diets, saying things like “Your weight hasn’t gone up.”. And now…(drumroll, please)…it has. Fuck.

It’s gone up and someone is going to weigh me and write my weight down and then it will be real, even more real than it is right now with me stressing over it every waking moment. It will be, like, super-real. Or something. 

The thing is, it’s silly for me to stress about it. The appointment being now is actually great. GREAT. Right? Because now I can broach the subject of weight loss surgery with her. And my weight being up is a pretty natural lead-in. Right? So that’s good. But…I don’t feel good about it. I feel heart-poundy and nervous. Which is silly. I guess maybe I feel like talking to her about it is a sort of point of no return. But it’s not, obviously. I don’t have to have surgery if I don’t want to. And if she doesn’t support the sugary and I do want it, that’s Ok, too. It could probably still get approved without her.

I guess part of it is just saying it out loud, with a medical professional. “Hi, I’m fat. I feel out of control and miserable with the fatness. I’m thinking I’ll just go ahead and have them cut out part of my stomach. Cool?”

Part of it is probably also that I was looking at a site last night sponsored by Realize (the makers of the awful gastric band that no one gets anymore because it’s so awful) and it had statistics. The statistics were mostly good–but the mortality in the first month statistic scared the shit out of me. It was over 5%. Is that right? Could I maybe be misunderstanding?! Because that seems really high. “Hey, this surgery could make you skinny(er). If you’re not one of the 5 percent that die in the first month because of it!” It feels like playing a game of Russian Roulette to me…and I guess if I’m being honest, in a way it always has. Gambling with my life. 

Vinnie would probably say something about how there are increased risks with being obese, too. But the thing is, most of those are In The Future to me. You know, they’re things that could kill me younger, but probably not for at least 20 or 25 years. Whereas surgery could potentially kill me…soonish?

Terrifying. But again, maybe I misunderstood the statistics. Because it does seem really high. And of course it incorporates everyone, including people who have the surgery who are 400lbs or unhealthy or with dangerous co-morbitities. Right?

I’m really not sure why I’m so keyed up about this appointment. It feels big and scary and like a turning point. And it is, but maybe it’s in a good way. I’m acknowledging that I am unhappy with my weight and want to change it. And that’s true! And it’s the first step towards ACTUALLY changing it. 

Also, ironically, I have to make enchiladas for someone who recently had a baby today. “Here you go! Something relatively unhealthy! ENJOY!!!!”

It’s going to be Ok, right? I mean, sheesh, it’s just a silly doctor’s appointment. With my PCP. That’s ALL.

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