My doctor forced me to do some disturbing things. It prevented me from seeking further medical care for years.
The author and her second night baby in front of the Philadelphia skyline. Photos courtesy of Sarah Knight Bidlack
My therapist is fed up with me. I knew it; she knew it. Our meetings went nowhere for months.
“There’s only so much we can do here,” she said. “Your baby hasn’t let you sleep for two years, your mom is dying, and there’s a global pandemic. Give yourself a break.
It was time to take the antidepressants I had been avoiding for at least 15 of my 35 years.
With a renewed determination to take care of myself instead of just two young children and a husband, I made an appointment with my primary care doctor. Dr. J has been my family physician since I was in elementary school. He took care of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters. So when he walked into the office, where I was sitting with greasy hair and bags under my eyes, I felt relieved. Dr. J knows me. Dr. J will help me.
I am a lifelong fat person. When my mother pushed me out two weeks later, I was over 10 pounds—along with the “giant episiotomy,” she would always tell other women with an exaggerated eye roll. I’ve always been a fat girl. I attended Weight Watchers meetings at 12 and 22 o’clock; I climbed and descended 60 or 70 pounds many times; I forced myself to put on that wedding dress so I wouldn’t “regret” my wedding photos.
But now that I’m in Dr. J’s office, obesity is the least of my problems.
“What’s the matter, Sarah?” he asked.
“I’m in therapy,” I said. “My second child wakes up every night, all night, for hours. And it’s been two years now.
“The second one came in like a bat out of hell,” he said, nodding.
“I have no help,” I said.
Dr. J nodded again. “Your mother…” he said, knowing her dire diagnosis.
“She’s dying,” I said. I can never fail to tell the truth. Others dance around her cancer diagnosis and act as if she is a warrior who should defeat an enemy that even the world’s most advanced scientists cannot defeat. But I saw my mother’s pain and suffering. If she could, she would help me take care of my second child day and night.
“My therapist wanted me to take an SSRI. I hadn’t slept in two years, I was raising two young children in the middle of a global pandemic, and I watched my mom while we all knew she was terminally ill. Suffering from one unnecessary treatment after another I had avoided taking antidepressants for a long time, but now I was ready to take it.
“We can do it,” Dr. J said. “no problem.”
“Thank you,” I gasped. I bent down to pack my coat and bag. I felt relieved.
“But we have to get you weighed,” Dr. J said.
“What?” I asked. Sweat ran down my hairline.
“The nurse didn’t record your weight ahead of time,” he said. “I need to write this down. Can you step on the scale?
“Oh,” I said. “I told her I really didn’t need to weigh myself today. I had enough troubles as it was. Despite my disdain for authority, I laughed a little, good girl syndrome. But I defended my early determination against those who were not serving me mentally. I’m not proud to say healthy things, which is the clear reason for my trip.
“No, you know,” Dr. J said. “Go up.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Stand up. I need to write this down.
Have you ever thought that we are all 15-year-old kids who are still angry and can never get over that anger? Because that’s what happened when I put my hands on my hips and said to him, “Yeah, who said that?”
“I. I do,” he said.
“What was my last recorded weight?” I asked.
He checked my folder: 275.
“Nothing is different now,” I said. “I’ve always known I was fat, Doctor. So have you. But if you need my weight for medication or anything, I’m the same as before.
“Let’s go,” he said, making a gesture with the folder toward a tall medical scale.
When I finally stood on the scale, it balanced just as I said it would. As I stepped off the scale, I told myself I would never set foot in Dr. J’s office again. In fact, I did not seek medical care of any kind for a long time after that visit.
I wish I could say that this was the worst treatment I have ever received from a medical professional due to my obesity. What I wish I could say is, sit down with a trustworthy doctor who just listens to you say you don’t know how to get through the day without wanting to die, and then by taking a power trip on your weight Respond to your confession, that’s what matters. This is just the most ridiculous.
In 1986, the author was a 10-pound baby. Photos courtesy of Sarah Knight Bidlack
However, thanks to antidepressants, I am now stable enough to recount the incident.
A few years later, my mom passed away, my kids finally fell asleep, and the pandemic scare subsided. Regardless of the outcome, I feel relieved that these struggles have been resolved. After experiencing such intense and prolonged pain, I desperately wanted to hold on to joy.
During my second pregnancy, I bent down to pick up my baby, slinging him on my hip, and heard something crack internally in my back. It didn’t feel great, but I continued with my daily activities, as moms often do. Between pregnancy, raising a young child, and my mom’s illness, I didn’t have the funds to get tested at the time. I also knew Dr. J might use my weight to explain my pain, as he had done many times in the past. But after a few years, that crack in my back turned into a lump that hurt every day. Now that I have a little more space in my life, I want to seek medical assistance to find out the source of my back pain.
When I made my appointment with the spine specialist, I was terrified. Will she take away my pain when she sees how fat I am? Would she tell me to go home and lose weight before considering any treatment for me? If I really lose weight, will the pain go away? Is the lump protruding from my lower spine enough to convince doctors that I deserve medical attention in addition to weight loss?
I struggled with this appointment and even canceled and rescheduled a few times. I wonder if I can live with my back pain without risking being turned away from a doctor because of the number on the scale.
Armed with the facts about fatphobia and healthcare provider discrimination against obese people, I sat on the exam table and waited for the spine specialist to enter the room. I have rehearsed my speech and am ready to defend myself and I will not be fired. Battle mode. My chest swelled. Nothing to lose.
Dr. White came in, sat down and greeted me. “So you have back pain?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve had lower back pain for a long time, but something ruptured a few years ago and it’s gotten worse since then. I know I’m a fat person and a lot of doctors in the past have told me to lose weight first. Then my medical issues can be addressed, but this huge lump sticking out of my back has absolutely nothing to do with my weight. It’s not normal to have a lump here, and I’m not even 40. This happened to me. Treat my back pain like a thin person.
Dr. White sat motionless in his chair, only blinking at me for a moment. Does she think I’m crazy? Militant feminist? A patient with a problem? Then she opened the folder in her hand and pulled out an MRI of my spine from a few weeks ago.
“Of course, you’ve been experiencing pain,” Dr. White said. “You have three herniated discs in your lower spine, and you also have scoliosis. Has anyone told you this?
I was immediately sent to my high school nurse and sent home a note asking my family doctor to check my back for suspected scoliosis. But good old Dr. J looked at my 12-year-old spine and told my mom that if I lost weight, my spine would disappear; it was over, bye. As I learned from Dr. White, my 37-year-old spine is still curved at 11%.
“I’m sorry you weren’t taken seriously,” Dr. White said back in the chiropractic room. “But your weight has nothing to do with you having an actual health problem.”
My head feels like it’s spinning. I’m smiling and it’s not even good girl syndrome. I was seen, truly seen. I don’t even need to advocate for being treated like humans and fighting fat stigma.
Dr. White developed a treatment plan for my spine. It’s ongoing. We try things and then evaluate their efficacy, and when I walked into her office, I knew I would be treated as a legitimate patient. I know my concerns will be seen as legitimate. I know I will be heard.
Dr. J ignored my mental health needs, causing me to avoid the medical care I needed. For a few years, I just ignored my pain because it was too embarrassing for doctors to focus on my weight. But once I recovered from the antidepressants and what was going on in my life settled down, I was able to view my abuse as the doctor’s fault rather than my fault.
Now, whenever I meet a new doctor, I give myself a pep talk and equip myself with the presentation I gave Dr. White. But I also knew that if I was going to have to do more than a few words to defend myself and let them see me out of my obesity, I needed to choose a new doctor.
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