I have pertained many times thus far to the experiences I had with the medical fraternity. l think more regular visits to the doctor are unavoidable when you are overweight. I suffered from high blood pressure for 5 years of my life, completely attributable to being overweight. It stands to reason that your heart will be put under more pressure to perform normally when there is substantially more body to pump the blood around. Back when I was gaining weight initially, my blood pressure had already started to respond unfavourably to my horizontally expanding body. I was taking the contraceptive pill at the time and, whilst at one of my regular check ups and when I starting gaining weight initially back in 2001, my doctor detected an arrhythmia. So the appointment went like this...
I remember waiting to be seen, my palms were sweaty and I had developed an anxious twitch in my belly as I watched the names flash up on the electronic notice board that was situated above reception at the doctors surgery. The other patients sat in their chairs, all silently anticipating their appointments as they gazed blankly on, pretending not to look at anyone or aimlessly read the selection of magazines that were strewn across the table in front of us. I too pretended I was not bothered by my impending meeting by picking up a copy of Readers Digest and scanning the pages with my eyes, although none of the words were registering. I was too distracted by the thought of being interrogated or even scolded for putting on so much weight. Maybe the doc would just tell me to leave and that if I were not willing to help myself then he was not going to either. Eventually I saw my name illuminated with large red letters as the piercing beep rang in my ears and I knew it was my time to face the music. I knocked sheepishly on the doctors door, half hoping there would be no reply and I could walk away. Sadly not, ‘Come in’ and I did so, closing the door behind me with one, final breath rushing out of my lungs. The small twinges of nerves in my stomach were now doing full blown somersaults. ‘How can I help you today?’
The doctor was a middle aged man with a nice friendly face and amiable manner. As with most surgeries these days, I never bothered to see my own doctor as it would mean waiting several weeks for an appointment. It was a lucky dip as to who I would see one time from the next. He sat back in his chair as I started to explain my symptoms and my concerns. I babbled on about my gain in weight, dizzy spells and knee pain. I must have sounded like a complete hypochondriac. He nodded periodically and tapped in a few notes on the computer screen as I spoke.
The inevitable and dreaded suggestion came soon enough,'lets get you weighed and your blood pressure checked first of all.' He got out an old fashioned pair of scales and asked me to take my shoes off. I stood on the cool metal surface and could hear the familiar knock of the scales pointer as it moved wildly across the face of numbers. It was like watching the spin of the roulette wheel, where would the pointer land? Place your bets!
The numbers were in kilograms so I quickly tried to do a calculation in my head as the red needle came to rest on 100kg. I was into triple figures, I knew that was not a good thing. The doctor looked over his coversion chart and tapped in a figure on the screen, ‘well you are overweight’. As if I did not already know that, duh, 'how much do I weigh?’ I asked, not really wanting to hear the reply.
‘You are just over 15 stone 10 pounds’ (220 pounds.) My heart sank, I had never weighed that much before, I was the heaviest I had ever been in my whole life! He must have seen the sheer disappointment etched on my face and offered a few words of comfort, 'you can always go and see the nurse, she can set out a diet plan for you. You do need to lose some weight just for health reasons.’
Obese
Immediately I thought back to when I had weighed a spritely 140 pounds stone at 20 years old, how could I have gained so much weight in just 2 years? To add insult to injury, my doctor then went on to explain that I was actually in the obese category of the BMI scale. At the time, I had never paid too much attention to BMI but obese set alarm bells ringing in my head. Obese conjured images of those huge people who have to be hoisted from their beds by firemen, those who have to have their walls knocked down so they can be lifted into an ambulance.
I sat down again and rolled my sleeve up, awaiting the familiar tightness as he inflated the blood pressure cuff on the top of my arm. If my weigh in was not ego bruising enough, it turned out he needed a bigger cuff for my chunky upper arm so he went off to fetch the XXL version (story of my life it seemed.) I can remember sitting there and feeling so low. A nurse walked passed the open door, looked in and smiled. She was slim and I was jealous of her. In fact I looked at lots of women and was fiercely envious of their small frames, I had developed those familiar habits and behaviours that had haunted me my whole overweight life.
The doctor returned with a much larger cuff, I was certain that some skinny girls could probably get away with wearing it around their waist as a belt. Take two. He slipped the cuff around the top of my arm and pressed a few buttons on the machine. I could hear the whir of the machine as it cranked into life and the cuff tightened around my chunky, XXL upper arm. That familiar feeling of tight compression started as I felt my pulse beating strongly on the inside of my elbow. Just before I thought my blood circulation was going to be cut off completely, the air was released from the cuff with one big whoosh and it relaxed its grip around my throbbing arm. The doctor looked at the screen and then tapped some figures into the computer, I did not need to ask him to divulge the information this time , ‘your blood pressure is a bit higher than we would like it to be.' Doctors bedside manner always fascinates me, they have a very measured tone no matter what they are telling you. I always wondered whether they had specific training at speaking to patients. Of course, they want to reassure and calm a person and not make a drama out of anything as no one likes going to their doctor at the best of times but their tone and deliverance was always so perfect.
‘What is my reading?’ I understood the basics of a blood pressure reading from my dad, who was a microbiologist for many years and knew about such things.
‘178/101’ I knew the 101 was not good, the top figure can be affected by nerves and stress but the bottom figure was always looked at more closely. He continued , 'we would really like to see a reading of at least 140/70 for someone of your age group.' Fair enough.
There was that measured tone again, as if he had just asked me where I was going on holiday. He had a look of mild concern on his face and took hold of my wrist and placed two fingers on my pulse, looking at his watch. ‘What now?’ I thought and felt the panic growing in my belly. He held my wrist for what seemed an eternity before finally releasing it , ‘have you ever noticed that you have quite an erratic pulse?’ I shook my head and a million and one questions began whirring around my mind. He continued, 'the machine has measured it at 88 beats per minute. I checked and you seem to have an irregularity of some description with the rhythm’. GREAT! It was at this point that I decided it would be best to let doc know about my periods of faintness and dizziness. He frowned and wrote some more things down.
Irregular heart rate
This meant my pulse was irregular, I understand that it is pretty common and 1 in 4 of us have this usually benign condition. He reassured me that it was probably nothing to worry about and very natural to me, but that he wanted to be sure as my dad's side of the family have a history with heart conditions. I reluctantly agreed and knew what was coming next, 'we will need to send you to have an ECG'. An electro cardiogram is a machine they hook you up to that measures and traces your heart rate over a short period of time. I was familiar with them through previous discussions I had had with my father. I was also fully aware that this appointment would require me to be topless so the cardio analyst could attach the electrodes required to carry out the test. Great. It seems silly that such an inane thing would bother me. it was very important that I had this test so they could rule out any underlying heart condition, especially since my father has had various heart issues his whole life. Grow up, I told myself but underneath I was dreading the appointment. My puppies were as rarely sighted as the do do and this unrevealing would be quite the ordeal. My bust was a rather full 40F so any ECG operator would have a fight on their hands with my ample bosom.
I considered not attending the appointment. Silly I know, my health takes precedence over my vanity. But the seriousness of the situation overwhelmed me and I knew I had to swallow my pride and get it over with. It’s not like these ECG people have not seen a pair of breasts before. They do their job day in, day out. Anyway, hopefully it would be a woman, after all there was a 50/50 chance it would be.
The day of the reveal
So the appointment soon rolled around and I turned up at the hospital. I sat in the waiting room, wondering which lucky person would have the pleasure of seeing me go topless. I kept scanning the doctors, nurses and staff members that rushed passed, always looking like something really urgent was going on. The minutes ticked by on the non descript hospital issue clock and the door to the ECG room opened. It might as well have been in slow motion as my worst fears were realised, a young man stepped out. He could not have been more than 25 years old, his long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail and was visually pleasing on the eye. He called my name and held the door open for me. The room was quite bare with a chair in the corner and a rather old looking computer on a desk. A bed was up against the wall with a sheet of that hygienic white tissue paper draped over its leathery surface. The ECG machine looked like a photocopier to me, although there were a multitude of wires running out of its plastic encasement. I perched myself uncomfortably on the bed and he brushed over the basics and outlined what was going to happen. I must admit that the words missed my ears and played out as a quiet buzz in the back of my mind. All sorts of scenarios were acting themselves out, what happens if he got embarrassed at the size of my boobs? What happens if I take my bra off and they knock him out, rendering him unconscious? The only words I did register were, 'if you would like to remove your top items of clothing including your bra and then lie on the table.' He pulled across the curtain that surrounded the bed and I could feel myself begin to blush. My mammaries were an impressive size and there would be no doubt that the poor chap would be in a state of shock when they were revealed. I kept telling myself that this is his job and he has probably seen boobs bigger than mine, just not that many. So I was derobed and lay myself on the bed. The guy asked if I was ready and I let out a nervous ‘yep!’
He pulled back the curtains and had armed himself with some electrode pads and a tube of clear gel. Initially he did not react to the vision before him but his cheeks immediately darkened to a shade not far from deep crimson. He explained that he had to stick the electrodes on a number of locations around my left breast and proceeded to nervously place the pads underneath above and beside my breast. I looked away and wondered why the hell he was not trying to make conversation in a clearly uncomfortable situation. As he fidded around I tried to start up a riveting discussion about ECG’s . He gave a few half hearted replies, clearly preoccupied with his mission on my bosom. Lifting them up to place the electrodes must have required some sort of heavy lifting equipment. After what seemed an eternity he turned the machine on and it kicked into life. It made a few beeping noises and he punched in a couple of things on a key pad. He asked that I stay as still as possible as it recorded my heart rate and pulse. So there I lay, boobs out and this young man relieved that he could focus his attention on his machine rather than me. A scenario we were both more than happy with. After a couple of failed attempts the machine spat out a reading. The young man took it, gave it a few thoughtful scans and then told me it would be fine to put my clothes on again. I think we were both grateful that it had done its job.
To round the episode off, it turned out that I did have an irregular heart beat but the doctor was not convinced it was anything to be concerned with. Phew! My pride was semi intact despite the 'unrevealing' of my impressive set to an unsuspecting cardiogram operator.
L x
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