Doctor’s Unsettling Demand Stops Future Medical Visits

My therapist had enough of me. I knew it; she knew it. Our sessions had been going nowhere for months.
“There’s only so 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 for the antidepressant I’d been avoiding for at least 15 of my 35 years.
Armed with a newfound resolve to take care of myself instead of only taking care of two small children and a husband, I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. Dr. J had served as my family doctor from when I was in grade school. He had cared for my parents, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my siblings. And so when he came into the office where I was sitting with greasy hair and bags under my eyes, I felt relief. Dr. J knew me. Dr. J would help me.
I’m a lifelong fat person. I was over 10 pounds when my mother pushed me out of her body, two weeks late — accompanied by a “giant episiotomy,” she’d always tell other women with a knowing, exaggerated eye roll. I never grew out of being the fat girl. I went to Weight Watchers meetings at 12 and 22; I climbed up and down 60 or 70 pounds at a time on many occasions; I pressured myself to fit into that wedding dress so I wouldn’t “regret” my wedding photos.
But here I was, in Dr. J’s office, and now my fatness was the least of my problems.
“What’s going on, Sara?” he asked.
“I’m in therapy,” I said. “My second kid is up every night, all night, for hours and hours. And it’s been two years of that.”
“The second one comes in like a bat outta hell,” he said, nodding.
“And I have no help,” I said.
Dr. J nodded again. “Your mom…” he said, knowing of her dire diagnosis.
“She’s dying,” I said. I could never not tell the truth. Others danced around her cancer diagnosis and acted like she was a warrior who was supposed to defeat the same enemy that even the most advanced scientists in the world couldn’t beat. But I saw my mom’s agony and suffering. She would have been there night and day to help me with the second kid, if she could have.
“My therapist wants me on an SSRI. I haven’t slept in two years, I’m parenting two small kids in a global pandemic, and I am watching my mom needlessly suffer through treatment after treatment when we all know she’s terminal. I’ve been avoiding going on an antidepressant for a long time but I feel ready to accept it now.”
“We can do that,” Dr. J said. “No problem.”
“Thank you,” I breathed. I reached down to gather my coat and bag. I felt so much relief.
“But we gotta get you on the scale,” Dr. J said.
“What?” I asked. Sweat pricked 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 really didn’t need to be weighed today. I have enough troubling my head right now.” I laughed a little, good-girl syndrome even as I defied authority. But I was proud of my earlier resolve to say no to things that are bad for my mental health, which was the explicit reason for my visit.
“No, you do,” Dr. J said. “Get on up there.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Get up there. I need to write it down.”
You ever think that we’re all still angry 15-year-olds and we never really grow out of that? Because that’s what was happening when I literally put my hands on my hips and said to him, “Yeah, who says?”
“Me. 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’m fat, doc. And so have you. But if you need my weight for dosing or something, I’m just about the same as I was before.”
“Go,” he said, using the folder to create a herding gesture toward the tall medical scale.
When I finally stepped on the scale, it balanced out just as I said it would. And when I stepped off the scale, I told myself I’d never set foot back in Dr. J’s office. In fact, I didn’t seek any sort of medical care for a long time after that visit.
I wish I could say this was the worst I’ve ever been treated by a medical professional due to my fatness. I wish I could say that sitting with a trusted doctor who just listened to you say you don’t know how to get through the day without wanting to die, and then responds to your confession by going on a power trip about your weight was the worst experience I’ve ever had as a visibly fat person in a medical setting, but it’s not. It’s just the most ridiculous.