I had a doctor's appointment this past week. Just a follow-up visit concerning blood pressure and a cyst, shouldn't have been anything earth-shattering. And guess who was assigned to take me back? A community college student studying to be a nurse's aid. Now, I know everyone has to train, bless their hearts, but who wants to be the guinea pig??? Nothing against her, she was nice enough, but she mis-weighed me. I stepped on the scale, and for someone with a background in anorexia, this simple act can dredge up a vast array of feelings. Someone once told me that he hasn't weighed fifty times in his life. At the height of my low weight, I weighed at least fifty time a day. We have a love/hate relationship, the scale and I. Even though I only weigh at doctors' offices, I can guess my weight pretty accurately - wouldn't it be cool if we could win prizes for that? So, let's call her, Danielle, weighed me in far, far too low. Achieving that weight takes work - an active disorder. And Chris notices and makes remarks. And my clothes are much looser. I'm sure that number has a piece in my book. I know it well. I was absolutely positive, standing there on the scale beside Danielle, that I was at a healthier weight. I stepped off and asked for a do over. Same thing. And she said something like, "That's all I can give you," as if weights are something doled out to us and she'd met her quota for the day. I was at once aggravated and scared. What if it was true????? I saw a lot of chocolate milk, sweet tea and ice cream in my future. More than any sane person could ever want. And I could already picture those flinty eyes my husband can get when this disorder threatens us again. I resigned myself to the examining room where Danielle told me to have a seat in the wooden chair. They were all wooden. I had my worst attitude - my sixth grade one - worked up by the time Dr. Joe came in, and he took the brunt of my frustration. I vented. Always so patient. He listened and then simply arranged for an experienced nurse to weigh me one more time. Ahhhhh. My healthy weight. The one I guessed. Now where is my carnival prize?
So what? Some young whipper snapper can't work the scale yet and it's a blog entry? Here's what's blog-worthy about the experience. Not one fiber of my being wanted that low weight. NO PART of me was happy about it. Even when I've felt healthy, looked healthy, had a healthy weight, there has been a part of me set aside that desires the low weight - that feels accomplished when the reading is down. I was so, so relieved to see the higher number that day - and not just because I would be free from reproach, but because I wanted to be okay. So, Danielle, thanks. For messing up. And directing me to the wooden chair. Because I might not have known.