Diagnosis

I say, “Doctor, I feel weak, dizzy, nauseated, and I’m having trouble sleeping due to pain.” My legs dangle from the edge of the exam table where I’ve been sitting, waiting for the blood work to come back.

Dr. Avery Mann nods and says, “That syncs. The tests show Dizzimitus Weakoni Nausea Painitude.”

“Oh, my! Not DWNP!” I clutch my chest. “What can be done?”

“Well…” He thumbs through the charts. “There are treatments. Surgery. Medication. But…”

I’m afraid to ask, “But what?”

Soft, almost delicate fingers comb his salt and pepper bangs to the side of his small face. “You see, you’re obese.”

“I’m fat?”

“Yes. Your BMI is 30.”

“You measured it?”

“No.” He chuckles to himself. “I can just tell by looking at you.”

“Amazing.” I scratch my chin. “And DWNP is caused by my extra pounds?”

Dr. Mann’s eyebrows fall with the gravitas of his answer, “We don’t know that but you need to lose 40 pounds.”

“Exactly 40?”

“Yes.”

“Not 43?”

“40.”

I clasp my hands together and exclaim, “Oh, thank God! Three less pounds make it so much easier.”

I stand and go to work, zipping, squishing, and squelching. A layer of fat peels away from my limbs, stomach, and butt, and sloughs down into a jiggling pile at my feet.

Dr. Mann smirks. “Feel better?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor.” I snug the hospital gown tighter around me. “I’ve so missed this curvaceous, sexy body of my youth. And I can’t wait to hear the cat calls when I’m, like, walking while wearing jeans and a tee. I can now look forward again to all the vulgar offers, sleazy married men, and jealous women. To think, I’ll get to be thrown up against walls again and groped. Oh, and all the kind, thoughtful propositions. It’ll be like music to my ears.”

“I see…you…well…those are…” He stammers, his gaze stuck in my cleavage.

“I’m up here, Doc.”

“Right.” He buries his eyes in his clipboard. “So…your symptoms are gone?”

“No. I still feel dizziness, weakness, nausea, and pain.”

He looks up under his eyebrows. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

He speaks clinically while checking the computer screen, “Is it really dizziness or did you get up too fast? Maybe you skipped breakfast.”

“Goodness. I thought we just established that I eat too much so I don’t -”

“- And the weakness. You may need more exercise or maybe you worked out too much.” The keys tap as he’s typing something.

“Hmmm… Which is it?”

Dr. Mann doesn’t look over at me. “The nausea could also be caused by menopause or you might be pregnant.”

“Goodness, that’s a stretch.”

He hits a key and pushes away from the computer. “And well, there’s “good” pain and there’s “bad” pain.”

“Oh, good grief! This is like watching a tennis match.”

He falls silent before smiling paternally down at me. Then he rolls a chair over in front of my legs and settles. “You see, ma’am, women tend to “feel” things, you know, differently. Especially as they age. You could be feeling lonely or bored.” His features soften with compassion. “Maybe you think you’re becoming irrelevant and you need someone to listen to you.”

I lean back. “You think I’m making this up to get attention?”

“No. Of course not.” He pats my knee. “But our minds can exaggerate symptoms if we don’t have other things going on in our lives.”

“So…” I slip sideways off the table and pick up my stack of clothes from the chair. “The tests show DWNP.” I pull up my baggy jeans and tuck in the hospital gown. “And then it was obesity, and now,” I slip both feet into my tennies, “I have hysteria.”

When his face clouds, I step around him in the tiny examination room, and open the door. From the hallway, I look back.

He raises one eyebrow to me and deepens his voice, “Am I to understand you are refusing treatment?”

“Oh, no, doctor.” As the automatic door closer squeezes Dr. Mann slowly, mercifully out of sight, I quickly duck back inside to retrieve my fat armor from the floor. Escaping again through the aperture, I mutter under my breath, “I just think I might have been healthier before I came in.”