On Doctors and Discoveries

She’s in this blog. Trust me.

Yesterday, I went into our family doctor to get a physical.  Jonathon and I would like to have life insurance, something we’ve never had but would like to as a “just in case” type of deal. Our new insurance company wants proof that we are insurable and not sucking cancer sticks or living on lard.

Generally, I don’t like going to the doctor.  I’m not as bad as most men I know who only go if they’re bleeding out their eyeballs, but I haven’t always found doctors to be super helpful or knowledgeable.  I fired Ruby’s first obstetrician.  Does that give you a clue?  He kept nattering on about how I was a high-risk pregnancy since I was, ahem, middle-aged.

“Twenty percent of all pregnancies end in a miscarriage”, he intoned more than once.  Hence the 3 blood tests he made me take to confirm my unlikely pregnancy.  Apparently, I was some kind of medical miracle, knocked-up without his permission and despite low hormone levels. I started to look like an addict, sneaking back into work from my lunch hour, hiding my beat-up, newly bandaged arm under a sweater.  Sigh.

So with these kind of flashbacks, I got on the scale. I swiftly recalled weighing in each visit when I was pregant…and gained 60 pounds over the 9-month run. Goody!  More punishment.  I tried not to look at the digital readout, right under my nose.  I have long thought weighing in kilograms was much more mysterious and frankly, kinder.  I remember reading an interview with the marvelous Audrey Tautou of “Amelie”  and “DaVinci Code” fame saying she never weighed more than 48-50 kilograms.  Or even in the old English measurement of stones:  “I weigh approximately 8 stones”.  See, better already, right?  More connected to nature or something.

The scale number came up in kilograms first, then instantly converted to pounds.

And that’s where it hit me.  Wait just a minute! My scale, the digital mini supposed truth-teller in our bathroom, is wrong.  Standing there, fully clothed sans shoes and sweater, the clinic’s scale said I weighed about what I weighed that morning at home – minus clothes. I figure with jeans, shirt and foundation garments (yes, I *do* wear them; blame Bethany for drumming that into me), it adds up to around 3 lbs.

Say what?  All this time, I’ve been beating myself up about a couple of pounds and they were never there?!  I’ve been at my goal weight, or real close to it, for a very, very long time.

I should have gone to the doctor sooner.

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