Designated Fat Girl (16 page)

In October 2007 something happened that I still can’t believe was real. Michael and I were in the den, watching TV. We’d already put the kids to bed, and I was doing my usual complaining about not having enough time to exercise and not making the best food choices. It was a conversation we’d had many, many times during our then thirteen-year marriage, and Michael’s usual response was to listen, but not say much. Whenever I forced him to talk about my weight, he did so with great hesitation. He was so afraid of hurting my feelings or saying the
wrong thing. Truly, I should have been grateful for this; I think everyone knows a husband who is anything but supportive when it comes to his wife’s weight battle. Never in our marriage had Michael said one negative word to me about how much I weighed or how I looked, and I did appreciate how wonderful that was. But I must admit, sometimes I wondered,
What if he was a little harder on me, or just held me a little more accountable? Would I be better off?
At my worst, I blamed him when I couldn’t get control of myself, thinking how he was letting me down by not being more of a coach. But when I was being rational, I knew what a gem of a husband I had, and how lucky I was.

So you can imagine how surprised I was on that fall night in 2007 when Michael broached the subject, all on his own.

“I think you should look into gastric bypass surgery.”

I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly, but I saw the conflicted look on his face. It was one of great pain and reluctance, but there was also a sort-of quiet determination. He obviously didn’t want to say this, but clearly he had been working up the nerve and had now decided there was no turning back. “You know Paul down at the sheriff’s office? He’s lost all his weight and he looks great. He said it was a little hard at first, but he’s so happy he did it.” Michael was talking so softly, I could barely hear him. At first he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were anywhere but on me—on his hands, on the TV. And then he turned to look me full in the face, his voice a bit firmer. “I need you. We need you. I think you owe it to us—and to yourself—to at least check it out.”

There was so much I could have said at that moment. I could have told him I’d thought a lot about the surgery and had
it in my mind if one day I needed it, if one day I determined I couldn’t lose the weight on my own. I could have pointed out that there were a lot of negative things to say about the surgery, how everything wasn’t as rosy as some people would like you to think. I could have listed a thousand different reasons why I thought I should have the surgery, and a million more why I didn’t think I would.

But all I could do in that moment was look at my husband, who had so much love in his eyes it nearly broke my heart. All I could do was nod my head, simply, once. “Okay.” Now it was my voice that was barely audible. “I’ll look into it.”

And that was all that needed to be said.

I tell people how much I love to drive my minivan. I have friends
who flat-out refuse to buy such a vehicle; doing so, to them, is officially cashing in every cool point they ever had. I thought I was one of those people. Before I had kids, I told anyone who would listen that I wouldn’t be caught dead in the modern-day version of the “family truckster.” I had a zippy little red Toyota Corolla that was excellent on gas and therefore perfect for my two-hour-a-day commute. It had leather seats and a sunroof, and even though I was way over 250 pounds, somehow I felt sleek and hip driving that little car. Mind you, getting out of the thing as a very large person was no easy task. I learned to park in such a way that I would not have an audience when I exited the vehicle—no one needed to witness that heave-ho process. And I avoided parking on inclines like the plague—they made it nearly impossible for me to break free from the front seat.

When I had my first baby, I dutifully put her car carrier in the middle of the backseat, because safety experts agree that is the best place for a baby. And because she was in an infant seat, it was easy enough to snap her into place and put the carrier on the base that always stayed anchored in the back. But what I didn’t realize at the time was that eventually they outgrow the
infant seat, usually at around six months or so. That’s when you have to physically get in the back with them and strap them into a larger chair. And the babies are no longer quiet little snuggly newborns either; often moms have to wrangle, convince, cajole, even wrestle their children into the seat. It’s a lot of work, not to mention what it takes to physically haul yourself in and out of the car. So when I was pregnant with Eli, I was relieved we had outgrown my zippy little Corolla and gladly gave in to the mounting pressure to get a certified mommy mobile. With a minivan there’s no bending down, no heaving yourself in and out, all while maneuvering a squirmy child. It’s easy peasy, if not very stylish or hip. Whatever. I was really in no position to fight for cool points.

As a very obese woman, I realized motherhood was going to be somewhat different for me. The extra weight I carried touched every aspect of my life, and I knew being a mother certainly wouldn’t provide an exception to that rule. Heck, I even had doctors try to talk me out of getting pregnant while I was so heavy. And now that I’ve been pregnant twice while being grossly overweight, I’m not sure I disagree with their warnings. I wouldn’t want to see anyone deprive herself of happiness, but I also believe that mothers have to put their children’s needs before their own. I had to seriously question my ability to do that when I watched my newborn son in the NICU, in no small part due to my inability to put his health before my food addiction. Did I mean to cause my baby harm? No. But could I have avoided his being sick by waiting to get pregnant until my weight was under control? Undeniably, yes. There are so many things that can go wrong in a normal pregnancy, so maybe it is
a good idea to avoid having a child while you’re fat. Life as a large woman is certainly tough enough without adding carrying a baby to the mix. Not to mention actually giving birth and all that entails. It is, of course, possible to have a baby when you are obese, even morbidly obese. But trust me when I say it is not ideal, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Many doctors say the differences between a normal-size woman and an obese woman being pregnant start at conception. In other words, it’s way more difficult for a heavy woman to conceive a child. The theory is once a woman reaches a certain weight, she stops ovulating. Having been told this by more than one doctor, I assumed it would take many months and a small miracle for me to conceive, but alas, that was not the case—I got pregnant right away, both times. But it didn’t take long for the differences between me and my thin counterparts to crop up. It actually started with peeing on the stick.

We’ve all seen the commercials: Find out if you’re pregnant five days sooner if you buy this certain pregnancy test. Anyone who knows me knows that patience is one of many virtues I sorely lack. So once Michael and I decided to try to get pregnant, I had to know immediately if our efforts were successful. So I figured those standard at-home tests were for chumps—I was going to get the test you could take five days before your missed period. I was going to find out as soon as possible!

So I bought the test. I peed on the stick. I waited. No second line; I wasn’t pregnant. I was so disappointed, and a little part of me wondered if the doctors were right, if perhaps I was so fat that I’d stopped ovulating and it would be impossible
for me to get pregnant. Sadly, I broke the news to Michael: We were not successful.

Only, more than a week later, my period still hadn’t arrived. And I’m never late. And maybe my mind was just playing cruel tricks on me, but I could swear I was feeling some breast tenderness, one of the many early, telltale signs of pregnancy. I bought a standard at-home pregnancy test. I peed and waited. And it took forever, but finally, very, very faintly, a second line showed up. I thought … I was pretty sure … I was pregnant.

Before getting too excited, I called the doctor’s office and spoke with the nurse. I explained how the early test was negative, my period was late, and the regular test looked faintly positive. “Sounds to me like you’re pregnant,” the nurse declared. I was ecstatic. My heart pounding, I asked her what she thought about the early test coming out negative. Did that mean that something was wrong? The nurse laughed, saying I was probably fine. “Are you very overweight, dear?” she asked. My smile quickly faded and I swallowed hard. “Um … yeah,” I said, weakly. “Well, that’s probably it, hon. When you’re heavier, it’s harder to detect the HCG hormone in your urine.” I couldn’t believe it. My being fat hadn’t kept me from getting pregnant, but it had already inserted itself into my pregnancy experience—and had done so even before I knew for sure I was with child!
How else would my weight affect the next nine months?
I had to wonder.

In more ways than I could dream. I wasn’t as heavy with my first pregnancy as I was with my second, but still I was about 260 when I became pregnant with Emma. So you can imagine there was no little pregnancy bump to speak of, no
one coming up to me and gasping with glee at my burgeoning belly, asking me the due date of my blessed event. Indeed, me as a pregnant woman definitely fell into that category of “Don’t ask.” You men know what I’m talking about: If you don’t know for sure a woman is pregnant, never, ever ask her if she is. That should just be man code, something they teach you along with how to aim straight when peeing or how you never complain about your wife’s cooking in front of your mother. You just don’t do it. Thankfully, I am most relieved to report, no one has ever asked me if I was pregnant when I wasn’t; I have mercifully been spared that humiliation. But conversely, I missed out on all the happy speculation and surprise—I had to tell everyone, or always remind everyone, that I was indeed pregnant. Strangers really didn’t know just by taking a look at me. And there were no cute maternity clothes to buy—no oversize tops to graduate to, no borrowing my husband’s long-sleeved work shirts to wear to bed. My already limited wardrobe was now stretched to the max as my belly grew, and at the end I found myself shopping at the big and tall men’s specialty shops. Nothing says “cute little pregnant girl” like a beefy T-shirt in 4X.

I was even bigger when I got pregnant with my son, not far from three hundred pounds. And I had the same problems with detecting the pregnancy in the beginning; I had to take several at-home tests before getting a faint positive result. But this time around, there were further issues. When I went in for that first vaginal ultrasound, the doctor couldn’t see the baby. “You’re sure the home test was positive?” he asked, and I nodded my head yes, my heart sinking. He called the lab, and the pee test
they’d performed had been positive as well. Perplexed, he sent me to the large ultrasound room, where the technician was able to find the baby right away. The stress of the whole experience took years from my life, especially since Michael and I had announced to our whole family we were pregnant again just days before, at Emma’s first birthday party. But I was relieved to call Michael and tell him everything was all right—because of my weight, the vaginal ultrasound had trouble detecting the pregnancy. And the same exact thing happened the next month: My regular doctor tried to do a vaginal ultrasound and couldn’t see the baby. So once again I had to have an ultrasound done using the large machine, where everything was all right. I tried to take it in stride, but these little scares were stressful! By the third month my baby’s heartbeat should have been detectable with a Doppler, but the nurse couldn’t hear it. My doctor was called in, and she reassured me right away: Sometimes in early pregnancy, it was hard to hear the heartbeat, especially if the mom was heavy. I choked back tears as I went yet again for the big ultrasound machine, and yet again, everything was fine. I was barely four months pregnant, and I already had more ultrasound pictures than I’d had during my entire first pregnancy. If these early weeks were any indication, it was going to be a rough road.

I suppose there was a bit of a silver lining: I didn’t gain much weight with either pregnancy. I wouldn’t necessarily say it was a conscious effort on my part. In the beginning with Emma, I ate heartily, for once not feeling guilty about every morsel of food that went into my mouth. But then I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes, and the ballgame changed. I
had to watch what I ate, and that affected my weight gain. I will say that my doctors never really scolded me about how heavy I was; it was as though they figured it was too late to worry about it so what was the point in berating the mother? I didn’t feel pressured about my weight, and perhaps consequently, my weight gain was kept to a minimum. Score one for the big woman’s side.

When it came time to have Emma, my water broke but I didn’t have contractions. They admitted me to the hospital and started to administer pitocin. They outfitted me with a baby monitor, a belt that wrapped around my belly that measured my baby’s heartbeat. What a thrilling sound that was! I’d spent most of my pregnancy a paranoid mess, always wondering if she was doing all right. Now I could lie there and listen to my baby’s heartbeat all night—I found it so reassuring. Only, the belt kept coming unattached, and we had to call the nurse in there several times to hook it back up. Finally our nurse called her supervisor, a woman who was clearly having a bad night and seemed tired and frustrated. She started to show my nurse how to fix the problem, and I guess for a moment she forgot that I, the patient, was sitting right there. “Sometimes this happens with our big mommies,” she muttered as she wrestled with the belt. My nurse looked mortified, and I guess the whole room, filled with my parents, brother, and other family members, just kind of stood there in shock. The nurse finally realized her faux pas, looked at me, and smiled nervously. “Oh, hon, I’m sorry.” She truly looked upset, and I couldn’t stand it. I laughed and patted her arm. “It’s okay. You’re just telling the truth!” I said, somehow anxious to make
her
feel better. She slunk out of the
room, and my mom looked like she was going to kill her. But I shrugged it off. I guess I was too excited to meet my baby to get worked up.

Despite pushing for a few hours, I was unable to get Emma out—she was stuck in the birth canal. My doctor recommended a C-section, and I was too tired to argue. Emma Taylor Joyner was born, weighing in at eight pounds, three ounces. She was beautiful, and I was relieved. I was anxious to try and nurse her right away, and the nurses encouraged me to do so, even though it would be a couple of days before my milk came in. But try as I might, I just couldn’t get Emma to latch on. I found the whole process awkward and uncomfortable, and I’m sure no small measure of that had to do with the fact that I’d had a C-section and was incredibly sore, and it was hard for me to move around in the hospital bed.

But being so overweight, I’m also sure, played a role; I just couldn’t get into any sort of position that worked. My breasts were a swollen, misshapen mess, and my big protruding belly seemed to get in the way of putting the baby in a position that accommodated the nursing process. Bless Michael’s cousin Jenna’s heart—she literally got in bed with me and tried to help me put the baby where she could drink. It was horribly embarrassing, but I was determined to try and provide my baby with the best nutritional start possible. No matter what we tried, what position we went for, we couldn’t get it to work. I called in a lactation specialist, but she wasn’t expected until the next day, and the hospital nursery asked if I minded if they gave Emma some formula from a syringe. I wanted her to have my milk, but I couldn’t get it to work and I was worried about her nutrition. I reluctantly agreed.

The lactation specialist came the next day, and when we couldn’t rouse Emma from sleeping enough to try nursing, she showed me how to pump. She also gave me some tips to try when Emma was more awake, but no luck there, either. They recommended someone else, and I was going to call—but admittedly, I gave up. I was too ashamed … I felt like I was too big and my swollen, disproportioned boobs were too weird. I decided, dejectedly, that breast-feeding wasn’t for me. But I knew breast milk was best for Emma, so I pumped for three months. Yes, it was a huge inconvenience, and it made me sleep deprived beyond belief. I also missed out on the beautiful bonding experience I’ve heard so many mothers talk about. Eventually my body couldn’t keep up the milk supply, and I had to let go of pumping. I did try, and I did give myself some credit for that. But to me, breast-feeding was just one more casualty of my being fat.

Pregnancy and birthing problems aside, I was eventually sent home with healthy babies on two separate occasions. And I am so grateful for that—we all know the myriad things that can go wrong, and I feel blessed to have faced relatively minor challenges in conceiving and birthing my children. But my weight was only beginning to color the experience of being a mother, in ways that I couldn’t even imagine.