After roughly seven years of having no clue what’s going on with my health and simply winging it, I finally went to the doctor.
It was quite the enlightening experience.
Before we get into everything that’s wrong with me and all the unknowns, I want to mention that after twelve years of willing obliviousness, I now know how much I weigh. I asked the nurse to not tell me, but she still had to write it down. Well, she wrote it down directly in my line of sight, and I now know I weigh 143 pounds. I’m trying to not overthink it.
Though part of me is trying to celebrate not reaching the 150 pound mark, my brain is still very unsatisfied with 143 pounds. This visit to the doctor showed me just how much I am still struggling with body image issues and slight body dysmorphia. The minute I looked at the paper and accidentally saw my weight, I started thinking of all the meals I could skip and small snacks I could eat every-so-often to bring my weight down.
This thought process continued as we spent two hours going over my medical history. I mentioned not eating a lot and the economy certainly not helping with the affordability of food (I dive a little deeper into this topic in my next writing); I told her when I do eat, I tend to gravitate towards pasta, so she recommended eating chickpea pasta (or lentil—bleh) to get the necessary protein I’m lacking every day.
When I brought up my acid reflux and how I was taking Dexilant once upon a time, which helped tremendously, my doctor simply suggested I take one 20mg pill of famotidine once a day. So far, it’s not going too well. Then again, my period could be why I’m so vomit-y and burp-y.
The most shocking part of going over my medical history and all the paper work is finding out the severity of my depression. I thought what I was feeling was normal and a part of growing up. Apparently, I was wrong, and apparently, everyone knew I had undiagnosed depression. It’s to the point where I think she wants to prescribe me antidepressants, but after finding out my short time in therapy helped a little, she said to see if my medical insurance covers BetterHelp. Well, turns out it doesn’t so… I’ve kind of just stopped trying to fix my mental health.
At the end of the appointment, after finding out I have a couple of concerning moles (concerning because moles = cancer), my blood was taken. Ugh, I hate getting my blood taken. Getting tattoos does not prepare me for needles going into my veins.
Anyway, from the blood work, they discovered my cholesterol levels are higher than they should be. This was the second thing to shock me. The doctor’s solutions were to lower fat in my diet, eat more red meat, and do more physical activity (even though I’ve developed a pretty healthy workout routine in the past couple of months). It’s been a couple of weeks since this visit to the doctor, and I have done none of the above. I know, yikes.
I made a simple physical appointment, and after being there for almost two hours, I have to go back in six weeks to talk about improvements for everything above.
Not all of my body problems were solved. It was recommended I talk to an OBGYN about my ovarian cysts and getting on birth control to help with the brutal periods; the earliest appointment I could get is the Friday before Memorial Day in May, and I am apparently meeting with a surgeon because of the cysts. Also, I will be getting my first ever pap smear during this appointment. Just thinking about it makes me and my wallet nervous.
In the meantime, I have to get my medical records from Tennessee, which is going to be a task and a half since they won’t answer the phone. I’ve also accumulated a list of family medical history things to discuss, including congestive heart failure being common on my mother’s side, something that runs in the family.
Now I remember why I didn’t care enough to go to the doctor; ignorance kept the worries away.
