Plus Size From C

For those who follow from Twitter, you may know that I have been struggling for past few months with a chronic disease that has delivered a thorough butt drubbing.  Truth is, I’ve been sick for a year now, with only a passing nod to elusive remission.  The good news is that it looks like I am headed into the remission zone again, and that my dedicated doc may have found a way out from the daily effects of the disease.

The road here, however, has been an exercise in faith and footwork. (As a friend of mine would say, when stuck in the middle of a lake in a rowboat – PRAY – but for goodness sake, keep rowing.)  Along the way to our newest solution, I have ingested some pretty poisonous drugs that have left me with etch-a-sketch brain, made me profoundly depressed (and trust me, just because you know it’s a side effect, doesn’t make it any less real), grown hair on my chin, tested my sainted husband’s patience (he continues to pass) lost hair from my head, and gained weight. Not just any weight – but steroidal, moon face weight.  Chins not found in nature weight.  Can’t lie down ‘cause my boobs meet my chins and choke me weight.  Cheekbones? I ain’t got no stinkin’ cheekbones, weight.  This is in your face, no way you can’t tell I haven’t gained weight, weight. All in all, 13 pounds of extra weight – pretty much all from the collarbone up.  And with the weight gain, I have discovered yet another twist to being big.

If I mention that I am bumming because I’ve gained weight, I am uniformly and immediately met with “I can’t tell, besides it’s only, like, what, ten pounds?”  Really, you can’t tell?  My daughters can tell. My dog can tell.  The deer in the backyard can tell.  But YOU, skinny person, can’t tell?  And really, it’s only ten pounds?  Let’s slap ten pounds (even though I am sure I said 13, which is like, a size) on YOUR thighs or neck or arms or waist and see how you feel.  Ima guess I will hear you screaming from across the county about the unholy unfairness of it all.

If this response had come from only one person, or even a couple of clueless folk, it wouldn’t have caught my attention.  But the same response has echoed from over a dozen people, almost without variation.  The retort belies several foundational beliefs and underscores how far the rank and file needs to move forward before they morph from size tolerance to size acceptance.

First, the dismissal of my concern about gaining weight is quite telling, revealing the underlying sentiment that as a big person, what difference does another ten pounds make?  Well, it makes the same difference to me at 215 pounds as it does to someone who weighs 115 pounds.  It is 13 more pounds that make my clothes feel tight, how easily I can move my body, and affects how I feel about my reflection in my mirror.  Why is it a surprise that I would be concerned about weight gain?

Second, people don’t see fat people, they just see fat.  I never realized how much people don’t look at me.  They don’t see me, they see a size: Largely.  They don’t see if I have thin calves or strong thighs or a flat butt (which I do).  They scan the package and try not to dwell on particulars.  If they did, those who encounter me on a daily basis would know I have sacrificed my jawline for my colon.  As a society we are taught not to stare at those people who look markedly different than we do.  Sadly, I find that being overweight garners the practiced, polite, lightening quick look through me reserved for those with visible oddities.

Finally, people don’t like to hear fat people talk about fat.  I have noticed I can talk about losing my hair, being depressed or even growing hair on my chin and people are fine – but if I bring up gaining weight the subject gets changed immediately.  These are the same people that will spend an entire coffee break discussing errant cookie ingestion, a two pound weight gain, and how long they will need to ellipticalsize themselves after work to make the math even out.  Once I even completely forgot myself and said how much I weighed and it was like I had substituted tequila shooters for the communal wine.  Apparently, if your weight begins with a 2, it is only to be discussed in hushed, ashamed tones with your closest confidant.

All of this makes me powerfully sad, (then again, due to meds, a well written road sign can leave me equally bereft) as these conversations are all with people I like and enjoy.  But their comments isolate me in my new layer of fat.  The reality is that I have a long road of healing ahead to become a well person. And if I can’t even say I am struggling with weight gain and find support, who will I speak with about the fact that I now need to prop my neck into a certain position so that I can breathe more easily at night?  How will I explain the oddity of a medicine that is making my waist smaller, so I have droopy-crotch pants, but making me puffy everywhere else, making every piece of clothing in my closet fit incorrectly?  How do I say out loud that really, all in all, they aren’t so enlightened, but to keep coming back… and to keep trying, because we, and I, need them to get up to speed on this.

I have no answers, but I do have a best friend who gets it.  And of course, a sisterhood of women who live their life in bodacious bodies.  And for that, I am ever grateful.    12.1.09