Friday, January 4, 2013

You mean Oreos aren't health food?

  Today was a relatively kid-free day. Mary was at school, Baby G goes to her grandma's house on Fridays, and Tim took a vacation day and wrangled the remaining two monkeys because I had a slew of random appointments that were better attended sans ankle biters.

One of those was a trip to my doctor. I know I've written here and there about my ADHD (as if my writing itself weren't a dead giveaway and speaking of giveaways if anyone knows of anyone looking to get rid of an Ikea Expedit shelving unit, let me know because I want to put one in the family room and...right. Anyway), and right now I am attempting to get the right dosages straightened out to make me a saner, more functional individual. So we meet fairly regularly and discuss how things are going, tweak things, adjust or leave as-is accordingly, etc. Simple, fast, and the most painful part is usually the co-pay my insurance insists upon every. single. visit.

Today, as usual, I met with the medical assistant before seeing the doctor. She asked me how I was doing, asked me if I had any pain (I'm still not sure why they ask me every visit, but that's okay), took my blood pressure, and while that was merrily turning my arm purple, she pressed the button on the electronic scale. It beeped. The numbers on the blood pressure readout spiked just slightly.

"Are you weighing me?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said, disconnecting the cuff. As my arm returned to normal, I leaned over to take off the huge, heavy winter boots and mentally kicked myself for wearing a heavy sweater, jeans, big old belt and probably a cinder block, and stepped on the scale. (While I am comfortable with my body image, I do not enjoy being weighed at doctor's appointments. Towards the end of my pregnancies, I would thank my lucky stars that it was warm weather so I could get away with thin shorts, a tank top and flip flops. Yes, I did look classy, why do you ask?) Despite the heaviest garments in my wardrobe, the scale read five pounds less than my last physical. 

The medical assistant looked at the number, walked back to the computer and input it. 

"Make sure you get the point-two," I said, referring to the decimal place, because surely that was important. (Heavy sarcasm.) At this point, the MA obviously got some kind of new screen, because she began reading off of it.

"Do you feel it is important to incorporate healthy eating and exercise into your daily routine?" she asked, almost by rote. I cracked up.

"Aw, your computer is telling you I'm fat!" I chuckled. She looked up in surprise and gave me a half smile. What? I know I'm not skinny. Whatever. (Insert appropriate body image comments here along with the footnotes that I'm also pretty damn physically strong and have had no complaints in the appearance department from those who are interested in such things.)

She waited for my answer. Apparently she couldn't move on until I provided one.

"Yes," I said. "Yes I do."

"On a scale of one to 10, how committed would you say you are to providing healthy food at home?"

What, seriously?

"Um, eight, I guess? I mean, I cook dinner every night and try to avoid processed foods (except for these dinosaur chicken nuggets BJs sells because they are so. damn. good., but the package says 'all natural' so let's just go with it)..."

"On a scale of one to 10, do you think you will be successful in this goal?"

"Sure, I guess, why not?" 

"I need a number. Seven? Eight? Nine?"

"Sure, any of those. Eight? Surprise me." We have entered the Twilight Zone, people. I am tempted to say my Healthy Food Give a Damn meter is set squarely at zero and I consume only cans of refined lard that I get from behind the TGI Friday's, but something tells me that's not going to go over well.

"And is there anything in your way of acheiving this goal?"

"No?" I mean, I have a three year old who thinks the epitome of fine cuisine is a jelly sandwich, but she'll eat peas and stuff, and my five year old seems to think candy is a food group but I don't give her that much and the baby considers food to be concept art.


"Food is expensive?" I offer, and she types something in. "Hey, I've lost weight since my first appointment," I add, and kick myself for saying so. She can see that. It doesn't matter anyway.

"I need to take your blood pressure again, it seemed a little high," she said. 

"Well that's probably because you told me you were going to weigh me," I offered helpfully. The next readout is a nearly perfect 115/78. 

"That will do it," she said with a smile. "The doctor will be right in."

We chat, we troubleshoot, we come up with a plan that should correct some of the minor issues I've been having with my current dosage. She makes no reference to my weight, gives me a new prescription, tells me to call her if I have questions and sends me on my way.

On a scale of one to 10, how random was the fist portion of my appointment?

I'll give it a six and go grab some chips. But the baked ones. Because I am Committed to Healthy Eating. I'm at least a seven.

And seven eight (ate) nine.

Nine chips.

No one can eat just one. 

1 comment:

  1. My dear, you are FAR from fat. One of the enjoyable perks about doing "Public Eye" this year was seeing your cute self coming in with a bright smile, clever reparte' and your smashing summer outfits. Curvy gals rule the universe, not doctors.