How to Check-in at the Doctor When You Weigh 300 Pounds or More
Open with a joke. Make her laugh before the door
between waiting room and weighing room closes.
Exhale inside little laughs to hide the breathless
anxiety strangling your heart; remember to inhale
slowly; they already think we're greedy. I'm sorry
you have to lie. You and lying will become fast
friends. Lie your fat ass off. Doesn't matter what the lie is,
lying is easy when you realize you're not crazy: they're being mean.
Do you know how many times I've slipped into pregnant
privilege while nursing my lower back? Don't
worry about the ethics or ponder too deeply why
you're allowed to suspend your ethics. Compose
a good lie. I tell them upfront what my weight is +12 pounds.
Keep it light, we can't be heavy and unfit.
Truth time: you have to (I'm so sorry), you must step on the scale:
"What? Are you sure your scale is right?
I weighed myself this morning and it was __+12__!" Lie.
Telling fat women they're wrong is one of the few public pleasures left.
Warning: the satisfaction scrubs get from letting you know
there is less of you in the world will turn your stomach. Go ahead:
give them that, but give them nothing else.
Inducing smallness is a favor; because of our neglect.
They feel too small next to us, the need need to cut us overwhelming,
urgent—it begins before the doctor even arrives, to prevent our
imminent death, I guess. White coats are immortal—or their wisdom is
anyway—I've been listening to it my whole delicious life.
Once in the ER—and this is the joke I use—a drunk man in the next bed shouted at me, repeatedly:
Baby, all you need to be in this life is fat, funky, & f*cking.
between waiting room and weighing room closes.
Exhale inside little laughs to hide the breathless
anxiety strangling your heart; remember to inhale
slowly; they already think we're greedy. I'm sorry
you have to lie. You and lying will become fast
friends. Lie your fat ass off. Doesn't matter what the lie is,
lying is easy when you realize you're not crazy: they're being mean.
Do you know how many times I've slipped into pregnant
privilege while nursing my lower back? Don't
worry about the ethics or ponder too deeply why
you're allowed to suspend your ethics. Compose
a good lie. I tell them upfront what my weight is +12 pounds.
Keep it light, we can't be heavy and unfit.
Truth time: you have to (I'm so sorry), you must step on the scale:
"What? Are you sure your scale is right?
I weighed myself this morning and it was __+12__!" Lie.
Telling fat women they're wrong is one of the few public pleasures left.
Warning: the satisfaction scrubs get from letting you know
there is less of you in the world will turn your stomach. Go ahead:
give them that, but give them nothing else.
Inducing smallness is a favor; because of our neglect.
They feel too small next to us, the need need to cut us overwhelming,
urgent—it begins before the doctor even arrives, to prevent our
imminent death, I guess. White coats are immortal—or their wisdom is
anyway—I've been listening to it my whole delicious life.
Once in the ER—and this is the joke I use—a drunk man in the next bed shouted at me, repeatedly:
Baby, all you need to be in this life is fat, funky, & f*cking.
Jeni De La O is an Afro-Cuban poet and storyteller living in Detroit. She is a 2021 Kresge Arts Fellow and a founding member of The Estuary Collective. Jeni writes the monthly column "Brown Study" for The Poetry Question. Her collection, Sofias, is forthcoming from Ethel Press, 2022.
Art: Photo by Graphic Node on Unsplash