A year ago, my brain was locked on autopilot: I have to lose weight to have a baby, which will make me gain weight. I have to lose weight to have a baby, which will make me gain weight. I have to lose weight to have a baby, which will make me gain weight.
The thought kept looping in my head, over the droning of my sixth IVF consult—over Zoom, no less—in a two-year span. Today, the doctor says my vitals and blood work are perfect but my weight less than (well, really, more than). For that reason alone, she will not treat me. This meeting is not going well. And I can't overstate how much a pandemic complicates trying to conceive when your eggs are aging like week-old milk. I was navigating telehealth appointments, fighting my insurance company over billing, and chasing overworked doctors for just a little bit of clarity.
Remember how in Kill Bill, every time Uma Thurman as Beatrix Kiddo meets her opponent, she sees red? Her eyes narrow, and her brow furrows as she lasers in, thunderous funky synth wailing in the background?
When the doctor says from the other side of the screen, "Again, Wynter, everything looks great. It's just your BMI. We gotta get some weight off," I am Beatrix, seeing red. Excuse me, who is "we"? |
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