Borderline Morbidly Obese

Doctors, man. I rarely leave a meeting with a doctor (especially one related to my reproductive parts) without at least one incredibly painful line that will follow me around for years to come.

We had a truly banner day, recently. We “met” with our adoption  consultant (over the phone) and are now officially “started” on the adoption journey.

We also met with a local fertility specialist for the first time. We are in a new area and about 8-9 hours from the last one we worked with. There’s one frozen embryo (hereafter referred to as Frosty) left from our IVF cycle last year and we both feel like we have a moral obligation to give it a shot. It’s a life.

That being said, we are now officially eight years into infertility. By that I mean we’ve been “trying” for eight years. During that time we’ve had three chemical pregnancies and an ectopic pregnancy. And about six years of zilch. Apparently that one fallopian tube I lost was the good one.

So you’ll understand why we are less than optimistic about Frosty’s chances. We have had multiple pregnancies and not one has made it past 10 weeks. Would it be delightful and miraculous if Frosty was the one that made it? For sure.

Do we expect Frosty to make it? Not remotely.

That being said, we’ve spent years wishing and hoping and praying for a kid, watching others raise theirs, and turning off news stations where folks mistreat or abuse kids. Life is precious. We have a life that we created and we are not going to let it go. We are going to fight for it. Even if it’s a losing battle from the start, it’s still worth fighting for.


We met the local fertility doc. And it was generally pleasant. He knows what he’s doing. He’s friendly. He’s positive. He’s even slightly pushy about the whole “don’t give up” thing, which we expect from a doctor whose specialty is making babies. But dude.

Apparently I’m borderline morbidly obese.

This comes as a surprise to me. It’s been increasingly obvious that I’m overweight. It’s been on my mind. I’m mildly active. I know the activity could use an uptick, but truly it’s the diet that needs to change. I’ve been crossing my fingers that the metabolism of my 20s reappears so I can keep eating delicious restaurant food four nights of the week and drinking a beer with dinner. Every time I look in the mirror I’m like “just a few more years with sweet potato fries and craft beer! Please!”

All that came crashing to the ground, though, with the proclamation of “borderline morbidly obese.”

So what did I end up with from that banner day? Hope and joy that we will soon be parents through the sociological miracle that is adoption? The faintest glimmer of possibility that I might actually be able to give birth once in my life? No. No. Nope.

Look, I know that guy was off. I understand the unreliability of BMI as any kind of accurate gauge of health or weight. I know it’s actually a small spread with a lot of grey area and room for interpretation. Even within those broad parameters, “morbid” obesity is so much further down the road than where I am. I can look at myself in the mirror and see that his words are a gross overstatement.

But still.

It’s a doctor. It’s an “expert.”

I’m so tired of medical people. I 100% can not wait to be done with them in relation to my reproductive parts. They are THE WORST.

On the slightly brighter side, now I have the appropriate level of self-disgust to give up sweet potato fries and craft beer. Bravo, doc.

Dr. Cox exercise program |


DR Debbie

Yesterday I wrote about strange and hermit-worthy roommates. Today I will tell you about a discussion-group individual cut from the same cloth.

There’s something about a person who makes sure to mention their doctorate degree within the first few minutes of knowing them. Sometimes it’s fierce, overwhelming (I mean legitimately overwhelming) pride. Sometimes it’s a desperate need to appear legit (especially true in academic setting). Sometimes it’s an assertion of superiority.

Here are my notes about the type of doctor I met in my discussion group:

She’s rude to old people who mention shiny shoes.

Dr. Debbie is firmly established in the conference clan as one of the movers and shakers. No one calls her by her last name (in fact I have no idea what her last name is) and few people call her by her first name only. Nearly every calls her DOCTOR Debbie. This made me think of TV hucksters who work as talk-show side-shows. The doctors with first names only are the ones carted out by Oprah or Ellen to discuss the latest holistic miracle or why sunscreen really is a must this summer, guys.

Melanoma is no joke.

Anyways, my true distaste for Dr. Debbie occurred after a particularly fascinating talk by one of the general session speakers. The speaker was a renowned scientist, a biomedical engineer specializing in human tissue. Talk about engaging content. In addition to being interesting, the speaker was attractive. At one point I remember thinking “if only I looked that good when I was giving presentations… I would rule the world.”

The post-presentation discussion, then, touched not only on the speaker’s content but also on appearance. And what should have been a truly fascinating and thought-provoking discussion about the ways appearance influences credibility (particularly for women) it turned into a public lambasting of the first person who mentioned the speaker’s attire, with DR Debbie at the helm. I cut in a few times, but the group was on a “burn the witch” kinda roll, with the most vocal being those who had a vested interest in making sure all 30+ of us in the discussion group knew that they had no problem with a women wearing shiny shoes. Along with the comments to the group, there were sidelong glances, comments under breath(s), and a fair number of scoffs, tsks, and other non-verbals meant to demonstrate disgust.

doctor debbie | a post from sundriedtomatoe.wordpress.comInstead of being thought-provoking, or digging in and getting to the meat of WHY a speaker’s attire means so much to us, the group as a whole spent about 45 minutes reasserting that they don’t even NOTICE what people are wearing. They only care about the CONTENT. And how much of a RUBE do you have to BE to think that SHOES matter when a SCIENTIST is speaking? What IS this? The nineteen THIRTIES? JEEZ, old lady, get a grip on REALITY.

doctor debbie | a post from sundriedtomatoe.wordpress.comIt’s been a while and I’m still disturbed by this episode.

One helpful realization, and one that I am thankful for, is that this exchange (and being around that cranky Dr. Debbie in particular) gave me some much-needed perspective on my daily work environment. I’ve been struggling with my workplace lately. A lot of stuff is less-than-awesome these days; there’s plenty of reason to dread going in and to count down the hours until I can go home. But then I meet someone like Dr. Debbie and spend some time in a group of people like her, led by her. And I realize that work is actually pretty damn good. It’s not the greatest; the problems still exist. However, blatant disrespect isn’t part of the zeitgeist. By and large, my coworkers are respectful and constructive in group settings.

That’s not something I was tuned into before meeting Dr. Debbie, but it sure is now. In that respect, Dr. Debbie is kind of like a terrible disease, isn’t she? She puts it all in perspective. Like a bad case of melanoma.

(See what I did, there? I brought it back around.)