Health | BulgingButtons

July 25, 2015
by BulgingButtons 2 Comments

The Dreaded Physical

I did it. I went to the doctor for my annual physical and I did all the stuff I was supposed to do. Well, actually not ALL, but most of it.

Let me explain. I go to a medical group where there is a huge focus on wellness and preventative care. They have LOTS of different machines and an in-house lab and all sorts of ways to assess your health. That is generally a good thing, but each year for my physical they order all these tests that really don’t change from year to year, and they don’t change what the doctor will tell me. He will tell me what he always tells me, “lose weight and some of these other things will take care of themselves.”

Now you have to understand that I’m generally quite healthy. I know that being an adoptee puts a giant question mark into my medical chart, but in fairness I get a yearly pap, a yearly mammogram, and bloodwork done quarterly. Some of the other tests and procedures are just not medically necessary (so says my health care provider, and I agree). A healthy person doesn’t need a resting metabolic rate test each year, or an annual chest x-ray.

I felt a weight lifted off me, because typically their procedure for a physical lasts about 3 hours, and that doesn’t include the appointment 2 weeks later to discuss all the results. I was in and out in about an hour and a half, including the mammogram, so that wasn’t bad.

I also felt better about it than usual because of my trusty towel. How could a towel help me? Well I decided that I’ve had enough of sticking to the paper that covers the exam table and then shredding it as I scoot down to the edge of the table for the exam. I get shreds of paper all over my backside, and I end up on the vinyl cover of the table itself, which is what the stupid paper cover is supposed to prevent. Enough. This time I brought along a clean towel from my linen closet and placed in on top of the exam table before I sat down. When it came down to scoot there was no sticking or tearing, and my dignity (what was left of it) remained in tact. Next I need a cape.

A cape, you ask? Yes. You see the mammogram lady (who is contracted through a separate company, so she does things a little differently) had these wonderful cotton capes. The design was similar to a Christmas tree skirt, with your head being the tree, of course. It was soft, modest, and easy to move out of the way for the exam. I need to make myself one to replace the paper vest that the doctor’s office provides.

The paper vest is another humiliation that I just don’t need in my life anymore. First off, it doesn’t cover anything on this body, so as I’m waiting for my exam I sit sort of hunched and cowering. Secondly, somehow I managed to split the thing right down the back. Well, it is paper. So now instead of a vest, I have two completely separate pieces of paper around my shoulders covering my sides and little else. Never again. I’m going to make an examination cape and that will solve that.

These types of appointments are uncomfortable enough, without being made worse by the humiliation of being exposed and subjected to conditions that are awkward and unpleasant. With a few small modifications, I can make myself so much more at ease, and hopefully reduce some of the stress that I associate with my yearly exam. What do you do to help put yourself at ease at the doctor’s office?

July 14, 2015
by BulgingButtons 1 Comment

Just Because I’m Fat Doesn’t Mean I’m a Victim

Stuff happens. Sometimes there’s a reason for it and other times there isn’t. Some people are dealt an awful hand in life. I feel for them. Fortunately, I am not one of those folks.

Ok, I’ve had some sad things happen in my life, and some difficult things. There have been things that are beyond my control, and other things that were the result of my own poor decisions. I think most people can say the same. The thing is, those experiences don’t define me. They help shape who I am and how I approach the world, but I don’t get on a soapbox and shout at the world, “look at me and all that I’ve endured!”

Now please don’t think I’m heartless. I’m not. There are people in this world who have faced heartbreaks far greater than any I’ve endured. Are they entitled to anger, sadness, grief? Of course. But recently I’ve noticed a wave of “boo hoo, poor me, I’m fat and someone was mean to me” types of posts. I’m sorry, but being fat doesn’t even scratch the surface of life events for which to pity someone. Besides that, why do people seek pity?

Compassion I understand. Pity, on the other hand, makes no sense. Pity is degrading as it implies that a person is powerless. I feel compassion for people who face difficulties, particularly ones that are not of their own making. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish others well as they take on new challenges, on the contrary, I’m a great cheerleader. I do it all the time. You want to earn a degree so you can get a better job? Fantastic! You’re trying to eat better to improve your health? Good for you! But you want me to feel sorry for you because you wear plus sized clothing? Um, nope. Compassion, yes; pity, no.

I get it. It’s no fun clothing shopping. I’ve lamented about it often enough on this blog, but that doesn’t mean that I want your pity. I don’t. I want options. I want decent clothing at an affordable price. I want sales staff that don’t look down their noses at me. But pity? Nope.

Yes, I’ve been supremely frustrated shopping, and it’s happened more than once. Usually the frustration I feel is leveled at myself when I can’t find what I want, or nothing fits. I don’t go on a rant, and I don’t think the whole world is out to get me. And let’s face it, the clothes I wear ARE really big. A couple of average sized adolescent girls COULD fit into one of my tops. So what?

It doesn’t make me any less intelligent, any less beautiful, any less kind. I don’t love the size I wear, and sometimes I forget to love the body I’m in, but dammit, it’s my body, and it serves me well. This body carries me around and sleeps and wakes for me. It houses my brain and my heart and my soul. This body houses the person who works with kids and helps them to become successful when learning difficult concepts. This body houses the person who is truly loved by a wonderful family. This body houses a person with wonderful friends who share life’s ups and downs. This body houses the person who has challenged herself to reach difficult goals and has achieved them. What difference does it make to you if my body weighs 98 pounds or 298 pounds? Why do you care? You don’t. At least most of you don’t, because you have your own “stuff” to worry about.

The people who are obsessed with making rude comments about others’ appearance are emotionally stunted. Sure, you can cloak snide comments in a veil of “I’m worried about your health,” but honestly, that’s between my health care provider and me, thank you very much. It’s none of your business whether I have conditions or illnesses. I wouldn’t ask you your health history, or make assumptions based on your size or weight, so please don’t do the same to me. Fortunately, I don’t see that type of thing on this blog, but goodness knows there’s been a lot of it all over the interwebs lately, and frankly it’s tiring. Fat people are starting to look like a bunch of spineless cry babies, and as a feisty fat chick I sort of resent that.

If you want to talk about body issues, go ahead, but please stop playing the victim every time some callous jackass makes a rude remark. Yes, I know it hurts. Yes, I know it’s embarrassing. But really, I already know I’m fat. Some idiot pointing out that fact to me is hardly grounds for me to take to the internet to let the world know how mean some people can be.

Here’s the deal. Some people are fat and some people aren’t. Some people are nice and some people aren’t. I wish we (and by we I mean humans) would stop letting others bully us into a victim mentality. I am not a victim. I am a strong, intelligent, beautiful person. Yes, I also happen to be fat. Deal with it.

July 7, 2015
by BulgingButtons 8 Comments

Crossing the Line

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but at some point over the past few months, I crossed the line. I entered the realm of the really really fat, and it sucks.

I’m not the same person I was just a little while ago, at least not physically. I’m achy, my joints are stiff, and my range of motion is limited. Simple tasks have taken on a new complexity that, frankly, is ridiculous.

If you’ve been with me for a while, you may recall my fear of flying. It wasn’t the flying itself I dreaded, it was the thought that the seatbelt wouldn’t fit. It didn’t. At least I came armed with the knowledge that requesting a seatbelt extender isn’t really that big a deal, except in your own mind. It does get easier, though, you’ve just got to own it. The problem is, I don’t want to own it.

I also don’t want to own the fact that I don’t always fit in booths at restaurants. This reality escapes the skinny little hostesses who seat us, and my mother, who likes booths for some reason. In a chair I’m in charge of my own destiny.

While we’re on the topic of sitting, even that has changed. The larger a person gets, the more difficult it becomes to sit in a ladylike manner. Think of a Teddy bear sitting. His legs automatically open wide, it’s the way he’s designed. Well, as a person gets bigger, that’s what starts happening, at least it has to me. That makes keeping my already ample legs in my own airline seat difficult.

It also makes getting a pedicure a challenge (but it’s pretty much a necessity since reaching my toes is difficult enough without the added pressure of trying to make them look good). The sweet young women who work on my feet have no idea how difficult it is for me to maintain the position they put me in. I’m pretty sure they think I’m stupid, stubborn, or a combination of the two.

Even sitting in a chaise lounge in Mom’s backyard has gotten difficult. First there’s the fear that I’ll snap one of the ancient straps. It could happen to anyone, but I’m the one who’s fat, so I would never hear the end of it if that actually happened. Then there’s getting back up. The other day I was out there alone and I tried it. I just couldn’t quite figure out how to get up from that chair without flipping it or breaking my neck. Eventually I did it, but I was glad I was alone. I think I’ll read in a different chair from now on.

One year ago these were not real issues to me. Sadly they are now. So what’s next? Part of me is tempted to skip my upcoming physical because I know it won’t be pleasant, but I won’t. Maybe it will be the kick in the pants I need.