I weighed myself this morning….
Today is a big day, not because it’s my birthday or anything, but because I have to go and see the gynaecologist. It's been three months now and I have to show my progress with my weight loss. Today they will tell me if I can have a baby or not and all that depends on those numbers on the scales. The saying ‘Power in numbers’ comes to mind. I don't think this is what they meant, but it is fitting.
6am. Three hours to go, well I have a lot to do in those three hours. I bounce out of bed and get the shower running. I need to go to the toilet and empty as much as I can. Steam billows from the shower and I jump in to escape the cold. Water cascades over my head and down my back. I stop, hands on my wet hair feeling like a rabbit in a spot light looking stupid. Wet hair? How much will that weigh?
I quickly wash myself, trying not to do anything that could cause any weight gain, I brush my teeth and scrub my skin as quickly and efficiently As possible so as not to let any excess water seep into my skin – you just never know!
I hop out of the shower and attack my wet hair with the hairdryer, before rushing to cover my body with clothes to fight the biting cold. I pull my jeans over my chunky hips. How much do they weigh? I peel them off and go for the yoga pants, they make my butt look huge, but they don't weigh as much. I should wear a long sleeve shirt, but who knows how much those sleeves weigh. I go for a thin singlet and get the biggest jacket I can find to save me from death. I'll remove it when I hop on the scales. My toes are frozen, these tiny little fragile icicles at the end of my feet. I gently cover them with socks. How much do they weigh? I grudgingly peel them off and go with thongs.
I tie my hair back in a scrunchie, then think better of it, and leave my hair down, then rip my spectacles from my face and throw them on the counter and decide to go with contact lenses.
Every ounce matters.
At 33 years of age, time is running out for us to have a baby and all this is effort to reduce those merciless numbers glaring at me from the scales in order to get those tablets. Those tiny white pills that will kick start my system into ovulating so we can have a chance at producing life and bringing a child into this world for us to love.
Every ounce matters.
The past six months of dieting and exercising, support groups, health and wellness clinics, dietitians, judgemental comments such as “just eat healthy and try walking a bit and the weight will come off naturally”, counting calories, walking kilometres until I wear holes into the soles of my shoes, buying gym equipment and using it until I feel dizzy and can barely muster up the energy to get off the machine once Ive finished.
I drive to the clinic forty minutes early to try and get a parking space out of the rain, as I can't afford to risk being rained on, because that would add extra weight.
I finally get a parking space after driving in loops for fifteen minutes and I hurriedly make my way to the counter, passing the spectacular aroma of freshly brewed coffee and ham and cheese toasties.
My tummy grumbles and I hold my breath as I scuttle past. I breath through my mouth and instantly notice my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. I'd give anything for a sip of water right now, but not until after my weigh in. First things first.
Part of me regrets skipping breakfast this morning. I've been told to eat breakfast every morning, but this morning I just couldn't risk it.
In the waiting room everyone Coos at my medical assistance dog, smiling and commenting on his cuteness, all the while they are unaware of the beads of sweat forming at my brow, my hands begin to shake and I swallow down the lump in my throat as I fight back tears.
Tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of fear from hearing those words yet again, ‘keep trying, you're doing well, we will see you again in a few months, just X number of kilos to go’.
I know I've not hit my target, like every other time. It's not from lack of trying though, but who truly believes that? It really can't be that hard can it?
I think back to a few months ago when I was on the CSIRO approved diet, where I drank bland powdery shakes every day. I watched others eating food with mouth watering envy and my sense of smell became my super power. No, my lack of weight loss was definitely not through lack of trying.
My name is called and I take a moment to rise to my feet, my legs shaking like a sailor walking on land for the first time. The lady smiles at me, perfect white teeth shine from a lovely mouth, attached to a slim, model-like woman. Bitch.
I try to float behind her as we head toward the scales at the end of the hall, but instead I seem to flap behind, completely uncoordinated, like a big fat fish out of water.
I remove my jacket, drop my handbag to the floor, take a deep breath and step onto the scales. The numbers keep flicking upwards. I'm holding my breath. How much will that weigh? I let it out again and feel even heavier than before. The machine chimes as it reaches it's number, but my eyes are closed. My mind has swallowed all my anxiety and I'm no longer present.
I can't even hear the petite woman calling my name. I'm gliding through space, completely weightless and free.