Archive for June, 2009

Excuse me for a little while, because I am about to confess something to you, our 3 loyal readers, in the hope that it might be cathartic, help me move on, or at least help me regain the compassion that I used to feel for other people’s suffering. I am sure that some of these revelations might think I am trying to have a pity-party. I’m not at all… I don’t even know what I am trying to achieve by talking about it. Perhaps by externalising my thoughts… maybe I can find a way to be less angry about things. I dunno.

I have realised that I have not been terribly empathetic for, oh, about 3 years. It all came to a head today when I saw someone upset about their otherwise healthy baby being put under lights for jaundice… and finding myself snickering that I wish I was so fortunate. Before you ask, yes, I was embarrassed & surprised by my reaction.

Disclaimer: Before I start, though, I need to acknowledge that all suffering is relative, and that many of my problems are, of course, very first world, very white, very Gen-X etc etc… having not lived in a warzone, or suffered from (enforced) famine etc of course means that my suffering is nothing compared to some people, and thus the glaring irony & hypocrisy of my post is already apparent before I even write it. But, alas…Anyone not comfortable with that is most welcome to find the little ‘X’ at the top of their screen. The rest, read on…

For all of the things about my life that are fortunate, and in many ways great, there is (at least) an equal share of things that are not-so-great. A lot of it revolves around my health, my untreated eating disorder & the depression and anxiety that flows on from all of that. I have literally almost died from mistreatment by the medical fraternity, and been devastated & hurt more times than I can count anymore… to the point where I no longer feel any trust at all towards Doctors or hospitals. It can all be attributed to the fact that most of the Doctors that I have encountered have, at best a shitty, and at worst completely negligent & contemptuous attitude towards fat women.

Yeah, I said I’m fat. I am officially outed on the interwebs forever as a fatty boom-ba. So what… I have a complex metabolic disorder that unfortunately, despite my best efforts to not be a fatty boom-ba, manifests in perpetual fatty boom-ba-ness. And no, I am not OK with it… I try so hard to be OK with it. And I have to find a way to be OK with it, and that’s the part that sucks.

In this world, where being fat has about the same level of moral standing as murdering puppies & kittens in front of wide-eyed children, trying to convince anyone, let alone Doctors, that I am a fairly active person that eats small amounts of relatively healthy food, falls on deaf ears. Furthermore, trying to explain to people that I in fact have battled eating disorders for 20 years – that it is a constant struggle not to throw up food after every meal just from the guilt of eating even small amounts, or that all it takes is for someone to comment on my body for me to stop eating for 4 days at a time… because despite knowing, intellectually, that I don’t consume enough food to be fat – I am. And probably always will be.

Over the years I have been judged, lectured, been accused of lying, prescribed, lectured, prescribed, lectured, dismissed… had various health problems that went untreated until they were severe (such as the gall stones that became pancreatitis, because I was told my year-long chest pain was because of my weight… or the heart problem that was dismissed as weight related that turned out to be a congenital heart problem… etc etc). I have been on a diet for pretty much as long as I can remember, to the point where I don’t even know how normal people eat anymore. Every single bite, every single crumb, every single walk around the block or bit of physical activity is analysed, second guessed, micromanaged and, most importantly, assessed. This kind of obsessive thinking has been actively encouraged by every medical professional I have talked to. Because I am fat. Because I don’t lose weight. Because you can’t possibly have an eating disorder if you’re not visibly thin.

All of this completely disordered, fucked-up thinking culminated in 2006, with me being convinced that I needed to have my stomach banded. I have to admit, my motives for getting it were not entirely rational or sensible, given that I don’t actually eat anyway – but throughout the whole process, no one ever questioned it because I am big. Of course, if anyone had bothered to actually see if I overate, they would realise that I don’t… but because I was paying out of pocket for it, wasn’t terribly hard to convince the surgeon to do it. Besides, his own prejudice became apparent when things went awry.

Of course, the surgeon perforated my stomach, my stomach contents leaked into my abdominal cavity, my lung collapsed, and I was in a coma for 6 days and in hospital for 4 weeks (which is actually half of what they were expecting – I heal really well because I am fucking stubborn!). I had severe sepsis, and as a result, 19 surgical scars on my abdomen, and more or less ongoing, low levels of pain & discomfort to the point where it’s now just white noise in my day. Jason stayed by my side the whole time, and there were times where noone knew if I was actually going to survive. In the middle of my time in the ICU, just after Jason had been told that I could go either way… I am not joking when I say this… the surgeon said to him: “well, at least she’ll lose 30kg”.

(For what its worth, I was nil-by-mouth for a month with nothing but ice-chips, and clear fluids for 2 weeks after that and you know that? I gained weight. And they removed the band. And my metabolism was completely depressed and my body depleted for 2 years afterwards. Totally worth it, don’t you think?)

Being a fat pregnant woman who also happens to get atypical pre-eclampsia also doesn’t help matters. On February 18 this year, at 35 weeks pregnant, after being pretty systematically neglected by my private Obstetrician, despite the increased risks of my pregnancy, I had locked myself in the bathroom at Mercy hospital, defeated and in tears after 9 days there, afraid for the baby’s life, with a blood pressure reading of 160/110, my unborn baby having not moved significantly for 13 days, showing obvious signs of distress, whilst Jason argued with the Obstetrician in my hospital room after he had pronounced me to be ‘fine and able to go home’, having no plan, and flat-out refusing the standard growth ultrasounds for hypertensive pregnancies. We sacked him the next day, discharged & went to the public hospital, and Angus was delivered prematurely & urgently on the 21st for severe Intra-uterine growth restriction & failure to thrive. He couldn’t breathe. His lung collapsed. He had sepsis. He was on a ventilator for 8 days.

Oh how I wish I could name that Doctor. We can’t even sue him because, well, the baby didn’t die and we were fortunate & experienced enough to follow our instincts. I have thought about reporting him to the Medical Board, but what can I possibly say? That he refused to monitor my blood pressure despite me having a history of hypertensive pregnancy? That my complex surgical history increased the risks of the pregnancy and he ignored it? That, when I presented to the hospital, the baby was in clear distress and he ignored it and even berated me for suggesting that he provide me with a basic level of care *that I was paying for*?

All he would have to say is that I was obese, had the audacity to be pregnant, and he’d get off the hook.

I am angry about it, and I don’t quite know how to deal with it other than to write. To seek the advice of friends, to put my story out there in the hope that I can heal not only from the psychological trauma of the last few years, but also from years of self-abuse, self-hatred and pushing people away because I don’t feel worthy. Because I have been made to feel unworthy for something I cannot change. Because no matter how smart, or funny, or skilled I am – I am nothing at the same time because I am not, and never will be thin.

I find myself getting bitter about people who have it easier. They can walk around the block & switch to Diet Pepsi for a month & lose weight. They can take the Special K challenge and get in their jeans. They get their decent health care, their uncomplicated pregnancies and their healthy babies. They get to keep their organs and abdomens intact. They get to go to the Doctor for serious ailments for a complex disorder and get taken seriously. And I feel resentful about it. I don’t want to be that bitter person, but I can’t help it. I just can’t seem to get over the feeling that it just doesn’t seem fair. I know intellectually that there are many much worse off than me, so I hate myself even more for letting it bother me. It’s fucking stressful.

I don’t want it to bother me. I want to feel fortunate to have survived very serious illness. I want to feel fortunate that my child lived. And of course, I do… and I hate myself for feeling like such a victim. I fucking hate perpetual victims… and yet, here I am… unable to move on.

And I found myself snarking at someone else’s legitimate fears, no matter how relatively minor they might be, and I realised that these experiences, whilst in many ways have broadened my horizons and given me opportunities to see the bigger picture, have in many ways, eaten away at my soul. How do I get it back? How do I get over something that was devastating and traumatic, in a way that allows me to be compassionate rather than bitter… especially when there is no resolution to the problem?

I know that the answer isn’t in changing my body, but I honestly have no idea where to begin.