Now let us never speak of it again.
It is a good thing this is a written journal instead of a podcast, because between my stuffy nose, croaking throat, and intermittent bouts of coughing, I am not sure you would be able to understand anything I say. I know it is controversial, but let me go on the record as saying I hate being sick. Probably I would hate it a little less if I had any sick time left in which to recuperate at home, but thanks to The Great Catastrophe-Fest of Aught-Seven I have already used all of my sick and personal time, and it is only February. Yes, I know I’ve already mentioned this. Rest assured I will be whining about it for the next ten months.
Last week I saw Dr. Doctor. It did not go well. After I lost my first two pregnancies, I had to beg for testing, because two is only one more than one, and everyone who is anyone has one miscarriage, so two is “nothing to worry about.” But three, apparently, gets your uterus upgraded from “unlucky” to “cauldron of DOOM.” At least, that was the impression I got from Dr. Doctor’s sad, worried face and her intense insistence that we not try to get pregnant again until our genetic testing comes back. We hadn’t planned to try until after the wedding anyway, but it is a bit disconcerting to have one’s normally chipper medical professional looking grim and calling you a “habitual aborter.” The Actually and I are being karyotyped this week, but unless that testing shows a rare genetic problem, we are at the end of our testing possibilities. I had a full recurrent miscarriage panel months ago, which came back normal, and I have been put on Folgard and baby aspirin “just in case.” There is nothing more we can do for now, except what I am doing, which is trying to transform my body, if not into a temple, at least into one of those dashboard statues of the saints. So far this involves a lot of spinach and therapy.
Actually, the appointment with Dr. Doctor got off to a good start. She has been on a bit of a kick lately of trying to convince me to go to medical school. She scoots her chair closer to mine and starts earnestly assuring me that it’s not too late, and that I’m halfway there already. I’m not sure that a love of Google is the same thing as being half-way through seven grueling years of study and clinical practice, but it is certainly sweet of her to say so, and it never fails to cheer me. So, there was that, and then things slid downhill with the woeful recitation of statistics and pleas for chastity outlined above, and then the appointment took a dramatic turn for the horrifying.
I was mourning the fact that, despite the Metformin, I have been unable to lose so much as a pound, and Dr. Doctor chirped “Well, you’re pudgy because of the testosterone.”
Excuse me? I’m what now?
She went on about steroids and adrenal something, but I didn’t really listen, because I was too busy hearing the word PUDGY reverberate endlessly through my auditory canals. And then she did it again:
“So, you see, it’s the androgens that make you PUDGY” (emphasis mine). At this point my world began to go dim.
Pudgy. PUDGY. I’m sorry, but isn’t that just about the least appealing word to have applied to your body? I think she was trying to be nice, and not say “overweight,” because she has never, ever mentioned my weight to me before, and I am truly not that large, and probably she didn’t want to give me a complex. After all, according to the CDC’s Body Mass Index charts, I am only barely overweight, just teetering on the thinnest edge of overweight, only one point separating me from “normal,” whatever that means. But that doesn’t seem to matter now, because I am PUDGY. If I were described in a news story it would be as “Alexa Flotsam, a PUDGY resident of St. Paul, Minnesota.” Probably if I were a gangster, this would be my sobriquet. I would be Alexa “PUDGY” Malone, wanted in three states for a series of donut shop heists.
I should stop now, before I am tempted to hang myself.
Of course if I did, it would have to be with a high tensile strength rope, to support my PUDGY swinging corpse.
22 Comments
That was just … rude. I always expect professional, technical terms from my Dr., and “pudgy” does not even fall close to that category.
Met seems to act differently with everybody; I keep hoping for the magical met weight loss, but it hasn’t happened for me either. Perhaps that has something to do with my twizzlers and ice cream consumption, but I’m so going to blame it on my testosterone now.
Last week, one of my students told me that I looked bloated. As in MR. Dude, you look BLOATED today. (emphasis on MR.)
I’m not saying it’s worse, I’m just saying, it’s ‘bloated.’
Let’s turn it around. It worked for SICK. From now on, everything cool is PUDGY. As in, Alexa, your weave is looking PUDG-AY this morning. See?
Ugh to all of the above. Just ugh.
Also, I am hard pressed to decide which is worse: Chubby or Pudgy.
Chubby invokes mental images of 8 year old girls with glasses and red cheeks and few friends and butter-eating penchants.
Pudgy just makes me think, every time, of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Who, really, is cute. But not in a way that anyone really wants to be compared with.
Also! Your pictures of you, donned in the dress of the wedding? NOT pudgy, at all.
Dead to me. I have no Dr. Doctor.
Those body mass index charts are rubbish, don’t beleive them. Also, being new to this blog and so very excited that the first entry I read was about weddings, I speedily checked you out in your wedding attire. My very first and honest thought was what a great figure you had and how you suited that beautiful, beautiful dress to a tee.
That biiiiiiitch! Rest assured that if WHYBAML had ever dared to use such a word he would be quickly knocked off the pedestal I keep him on.
Pudgy? What the fuck? You are glorious and as Elise said, so very unpudgy.
Speaking from someone who has seen you, Pudgy is the last word I would ever use to describe you. I think she’s jealous of the extraordinary rack you are sporting…speaking in a very heterosexual way (but, DAMN! they are niiiice!).
You hate being sick?! Pfft. Liberal.
Alexa. Dear. You are NOT pudgy. Like the others, I’ve seen the photo of you in the wedding dress and it’s not just sycophantic adoration that makes me reiterate that you are in no way pudgy. Next time she says that, look her dead in the eye, lean back in your chair, slowly pull a Thin Mint out of your pocket and crunch into it. Keep staring her in the eye as you chew.
Also, sorry about the Cauldron of Doom. Any chance it’s just midly cursed? I’m hoping for you.
Pudgy you most certainly aren’t, dear Alexa. What an unkind and gratuitous thing for her to say! It’s probably one of those instances of words having different connotations for different people, but sheesh!
Good luck with the karyotyping. May it turn up nothing untoward.
i saw those pictures and it certainly didn’t look like you were on the verge of anything expect the perfect body! my god.
I think it’s a lady-parts-doctor thing, something they breed into them at med school, to say breath-takingly crass (and inaccurate) things about your weight at a time when you are most vulnerable. Several of my friends have had experiences of this ilk.
Oh my god. Any chance you can switch to a new doctor. One with a clue?
So of course after reading this I had to check out the flickr photos and have come to the conclusion that tf you’re pudgy then I’m morbidly obese and my diabetes should be kicking in any day now. Seriously.
“PUDGY”?!?!
Did you tell her she’s probably “a little f*cked in the head” because of the flourescent lighting, or something?
Yeesh.
Hey Pudge - have you had a hysteroscopy - office or operative? Have we discussed this before? Previously undiscovered uterine septums have been responsible for many miscarriages in the um, pud- uh, infertile community.
Ever Seen the movie Shag? Thats what Pudge-y reminds me of .. next time bring tomato’s
Pudgy? How totally rude. And the sad part is, she probably thought she was being nice.
Although, honestly, I’d rather my RE called me “pudgy” than hearing the endless refrain of “at your age with diminished ovarian reserve,” which utterance is getting a little old (get it? OLD?). I guess it’s all relative.
Pk, so I am on board with everyone else.
To your doctor: What the fuck?
To the universe: Quit fucking around, get it right!
To your uterus: Ignore statistics and be the oasis you know you are.
And to you? To you amazing Flotsamblog author? To you I say: You are fucking amazing. I apologize for my foul mouth, but truly, your entries are amazing. I look forward to continuing to read your stuff as the stories become filled with the joy of moving beyond pudgedom and dashed hopes.
What a lovely word, “pudgy.” Did you tell her how sorry you were that the Creutzfeldt-Jakob had advanced as far has it has? Because only a sponge-like brain could be capable of producing such a mindless comment.
Groan. Eee gads. This would have me in hysterics for weeks. Maybe she just meant that you FEEL pudgy, therefore you ARE pudgy.
Ah, I don’t think so. I too have seen you in person and you are NOT pudgy.
I’d smack her. They are so focused on weight at that clinic - for my first few visits I was told repeatedly that my BMI was in the high normal / low overweight range. Who effen cares what a chart says about me. I think you should throw a curveball in the conversation that leaves her breathless. Right now all I can think of are responses that are way to personal….