If ever there was motivation to be found within, I just may have found it during a recent visit with whom I like to call “my ovary finder”. Some of you may remember the day my ovaries hid during a rather embarrassing examination which I am pleased to announce, were later found hiding behind a rather generous paunch.
What was to take place during the short visit with said “finder” last week left me in the very least, melancholy. Apparently folks, I am not a good “candidate” for fertility treatment. Yes, I need it. Yes, I desperately want it. No, I can’t have it.
As if I wasn’t a full blooded woman sitting in a very intimidating office, abreast the most recent and revered fertility treatment specialist in my town, I was turned down because of my weight. In a very short amount of time I was reduced to a body, an infertile mound of fatty waste, a non thinking entity deemed not eligible to experience the joy of motherhood.
I must admit, the woman who offhandedly threw this information my way was indeed professional, knowledgeable and attempted to be inclusive in her diagnosis. What she failed to tell me was,
“I can imagine this is very difficult for you to hear. Unfortunately, you don’t deserve to be a mother. It seems you are what we call in the business, a fatty-boom-ba!”
She would continue, “Please come back when you are eligible to be considered a skinny-minny. You will know you have entered this phase as you will feel light headed and hungry a good deal of the time”.
I explained to this woman that in fact I have always been rather munificent in the hips and buttocks stakes, and wondered whether I had been a significant player in the long standing misconception that this would in fact make me a prime candidate to carry a little one and put this belly to good use.
And just to add a little insult to injury, I was also informed in a hushed voice as she lent over the tiny desk which I’m sure was there to highlight how huge I am, that the medication I have taken for two years to keep me well and happy is not compatible with the hormonal treatment I need.
This part I knew. It didn’t surprise me one bit. I have become increasingly comfortable with the looks, the quite lean-in, the whispered voice that white coats use to give me even basic medical information, as if I might fly off the handle just because they exhaled a breath.
I have long suffered from an illness that can leave me devastatingly low, and then very quickly see me packing my bag to head to the beach at midnight. This too makes me an undesirable candidate for fertility treatment, so it seems. I’m used to my dynamic life, lived so much of the time in my own head; used to the active participation of my thoughts. Fortunately, the toolman is also coming around to this life that requires us to often be combat-ready. Just last week, as that beach bag was almost swung over my shoulder, he diligently and patiently distracted my attention to something inside the home, where I was safely under his watchful eye.
Having understood this, please understand me. Whilst some little girls wish to be fairies, or princesses, and the special ones even diligent lawyers, when I was asked what I wished for, I replied,
“I’m going to live in a caravan and have twelve children. I might even wear moccasins”
I have since marveled at the response. Not only was I proud to think of myself as a mother, childhood play during school holidays predisposed me to the idea that a caravan full of children was the happiest place on earth.
So yes Doctor, fat will turn to skinny. The pounds will not be my enemy in a quest to do what I have always felt would be my most magnificent role. I will return to weight loss with a new vigour if that is what you require of me.
But even as that caravan dream evolves into a country property, lovingly tendered by the toolman, you will not take my dream because I’m partial to life’s extreme highs and lows. Because that’s who I am.
But sure Doctor, I can give you skinny.