My body, my identity

So let's test the truth of the aphorism: A picture is worth 1,000 words. December 2016:  Phoenix, Arizona. I'd just been diagnosed with osteoarthritis; other than this short crutch-walk in the courtyard, I'd spent most of our vacation in our suite. August 2018: Phoenix, Arizona. Same resort, same courtyard, same woman -- only 130 pounds lighter, and walking without crutches or pain.

As readers know, I don't mince words when it comes to clueless doctors -- those who don't listen when their large patients describe symptoms,  but instead look only at the number on the scale and assume everything that ails the patients will be cured with crash diets, dangerous diet pills or bariatric surgery. I've known my share of those doctors. But I've also had great care from great doctors. A great doctor is one who understands medicine not just as science, but as art; whose in-depth knowledge of body chemistry and mechanics gives rise to a sharp, reliable intuition; who, despite clinic requirements to see a certain number of patients a day, and limit time with any one of them, still sees each patient as a whole person, not just a body that needs fixing. My primary care physician, Dr. Hampton, is one of those doctors. She knows me well, treats me well, talks to me as one intelligent woman to another, and has never steered me wrong. In this day and age when heal...

One of many reasons why I keep returning to the clinic-based aquatic center is because I have something vital in common with every person there, whether or not I know their names. We are, every one of us, people who know what it's like to live with excruciating, unending pain. And even people who have found enduring relief from their agony -- people like me -- need to remember. In that respect, Facebook helps. Here's a screenshot of my Facebook status one year ago today: Sometimes, especially when my knee is throbbing and every step is agony, I remember this passage from Joseph Heller's "Catch-22" and nod in agreement: "Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being who finds it necessary to include tooth decay in His divine system of creation? Why in the world did He ever create pain?" "Pain?' Lieutenant Shiesskopf's wife pounced upon the word victoriously. "Pain is a warning to us of bodily dangers." ...

Facebook is reminding me that, at this time last year, I was in ago-knee. At that time, I'd dropped maybe 60 pounds. People -- friends, colleagues and women in the locker room at the pool -- were asking me if I "feel better." My short answer: Yes and no. Certainly I enjoyed being able to swim 40 lengths in an hour-long session at the pool, or ride up to an hour on the recumbent stationary bike. And it was fun to retire my too-big swimsuits and search the Interwebs for bargain-priced styles a size or two smaller. "But," I wrote in my Facebook status on this date in 2017, "my knee is still bone on bone." And it hurt. Oh dearie-dear, did it hurt! This was when two things became absolutely clear: Weight loss would not be a cure-all, and knee replacement surgery was inevitable. Now, I don't expect friendly strangers not to comment on another person's weight loss, nor do I take offense when they ask, "Now, don't you feel better?...

I'm a follower and fan of "My Fat Friend." She's an anonymous blogger whose experiences resonate with me: Living XXXL in a world made for S, M and L. Airplane horror stories, much worse than my humiliation of having to ask for a seat-belt extender. Having doctors ignore or dismiss the symptoms she describes, and tell her that losing weight will cure everything that ails her. Hearing mixed messages from family and friends, to "embrace your curves" but "exercise and diet, because we care about your health!" Fielding well-meaning but misguided advice about the joy of wearing thin-people clothes and improving her attractiveness to men (she's a lesbian). Hearing, from society at large, one decidedly un-mixed message -- that her body size is a reflection of her flaws, and that she's the waddling, talking epitome of gluttony, neglect and lack of self-control. One recent "My Fat Friend" blog entry talks of Fat Justice. It's...

Dear Dan M. and Dan S., I waited to post this blog until after the endorphins had worn off. Otherwise, it would have been nothing but a gush-fest of how much I love life, and my new knee, and physical fitness, and both of you. So here's my milestone report, a couple days late: When I started PT, both before and after my knee replacement surgery, I'd set several goals --one of which was to be able to use upright exercise apparatus, such as the treadmill and the elliptical. Well...I used the elliptical on Sunday, and the treadmill on Tuesday. I still love swimming and warm-water workouts. In the gym, I still prefer the recumbent bike -- preferably with an HGTV show coming through my shocking-pink earbuds. But after I made it through a week of the Columbia County Fair (yes, I went every day) without the crippling, enduring pain I experienced last year, it became clear  that it was time to try the elliptical and the treadmill. Both are way more strenuous than either the bike...

It's a keeper. My new bikini is here, and it's here to stay. In my eyes, it meets the criteria for a good bikini, which are the same as the criteria for a good speech -- long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting. So I'll take off the tags before I water-test it -- maybe tomorrow. This newest swimsuit brings back memories of a Bible camp where I was a counselor when I was 15. The camp didn't then have its own pool (it does now, from what I see of online photos), but as one of the recreation leaders, it was my job to chaperone the campers during afternoon treks to the nearest public pool, which was Teachout on the east side of Des Moines. The camp brochure was explicit: "one piece for girls." I'd seen the same requirement for Christian youth conferences to which I'd been invited, though I don't recall actually attending.  One teen boy came right out and said why: Since God expects boys to be chaste, the girls have ...

One of my Facebook friends, who like me is well over 40, posted a meme depicting women in leggings, leather jackets and platform shoes. This was the caption: "Twenty things women should stop wearing over the age of 40. Nos. 1-20: Other people's expectations and judgments." It was a great day last December in California, when I went out -- IN PUBLIC (gasp!) -- wearing my blue tie-dye pattern tunic with a pair of leggings. Leggings! Form-fitting leggings! At my age! My mother would have gone ape-doo-doo. Maybe, in heaven, she did. Ape-doo-doo was sort of my mother's default demeanor. If leggings weren't shocking enough, a few months later, I actually acted on my hankering to buy a bikini. The rationalization was, "I'm buying this for our trip to Phoenix in late August. After all [telltale rationalization words], nobody knows me there." I got it. I like it. I've worn it in the water, several times. I even got to show it to my beloved therapist...

I'm getting a bikini. Another one. And it only cost me $3. Let me back up a bit. Last month, just before fair time, I received a bikini that I'd ordered. It was the one I had originally eyed when I was considering (well, fantasizing about) getting a two-piece swimsuit. It was bright red, with a lattice detail on the top and bottom. When it arrived, I couldn't wait to try it on. The bottom fit fine. But I couldn't figure out how to fasten the top. I had to go to the online picture from my order, and zoom in, to see that I was apparently supposed to thread the tie though a complicated web of holes. Just when I got it through both sides and I was ready to tie the top, it would pop out, and I'd have to start all over again. This went on for a half an hour -- and when I finally got the top on, I saw what I didn't see in the online photo -- namely, nothing of any substance in the way of side support. Wear it at the pool? No way. I wasn't going to wear it outs...