Years of Life Were Worth the Weight

At my birth, I checked in at 7 pounds, 10 ounces, and 21 inches in length. The next 26 years, I pushed that up to 127 pounds and 67 inches.

I thought of myself as naturally thin, a person who could eat anything without gaining weight. I was a plain-looking girl, not beautiful, not ugly. As I entered my 20s, I learned the magic of hair styling, makeup and wardrobe so that, by 25, I had crossed to the attractive side of the equation.

The miniskirt era was made for me. Tall, slender and long legged, I pranced along, parading my lovely legs.

My self-satisfaction was shaken a few years later, when I started graduate school and gained 15 pounds in the first 3 months. I began a diet and lost the added weight by the middle of the second semester. A breeze, no problem.

I got a lot of mileage out of my good looks. As one of the first nurses in the Navy educated as a nurse practitioner, I attracted more than a few glances as I moved around the clinics in my white lab coat, stethoscope in pocket, high heels, blonde streaked hair and slim legs. This was before the recent rise in the number of female physicians, and people were not used to seeing females in health care in anything but starched white uniforms and caps.

My world came apart at age 39 when I found a lump in my neck and learned that I had cancer--malignant lymphoma.

I was devastated by the news. I attacked my invader by studying about the disease and all its horrors, not the least of which was an average life span of seven years.

In due time, I moved through all the appropriate stages to a place of acceptance. I took an early retirement and got on with my life.

Along with my cancer diagnosis came some positive tests for another disease, lupus, a connective tissue illness. Although I considered myself a competent professional, I didn’t know much about it except that it had killed the Southern writer Flannery O’Connor. My energy and attention was focused on learning to live with and battle my cancer.

Before long, I needed chemotherapy. I prepared to lose my hair by purchasing a wig ahead of time so I would not have to shop for it bald. I put on a few pounds and teased my doctor, telling him that perhaps the chemotherapy would take off some of the weight. Fat chance!

I knew the steroid Prednisone was part of the chemotherapy, but I didn’t know it would turn me into a whirling dervish of hyperactivity and a blabbering magpie and give me the appetite of an orangutan.

I now knew how hyperactive children felt. Every three weeks, I received my treatment, vomited for 12 hours, bounced around the house for five days and gained a couple of pounds that didn’t go away. It was no longer easy to lose weight. For every pound I took off, Prednisone put two back on.

Three years after my diagnosis, I began to have a confusing array of symptoms that was slowly but definitely debilitating. This continued for a month before I creaked through my denial system and remembered, Ah! the positive lupus tests.

Sure enough, this sleeping monster now demanded attention. My symptoms were severe enough that I was immediately placed on the drug of choice for this disease, my old friend, Prednisone.

Before long I realized I was facing a problem more disturbing to me than hair loss, which never happened, or vomiting. I was uncontrollably gaining weight. In no time I hit 140.

As my lupus progressed, the Prednisone was increased. Not only did it stimulate my appetite, it also caused intractable insomnia, insomnia that just laughed at sleeping pills. For three years, I did not sleep more than 3 1/2 hours at any one time. I could tell you who was on every nighttime talk show.

My physician suggested that we add Elavil to the recipe. A drug used primarily for depression, it had been found quite effective for sleep and chronic pain. The first night I took it, I slept seven hours. I thought Peter Pan had sprinkled his magic dust on me.

But if Prednisone was a weight lifter, the Elavil was its barbells. Up, up, up went my scale: 150, 160, 165. This tall and lanky size 10 found herself in a different section of the dress departments. I went up from a size 12 to 14 to 18. I don’t remember buying a 16. I gained weight so rapidly, I just passed it by.

I started taking an interest in the new fashions for “full-bodied” women and asked myself where Madison Avenue dreams up these names. I felt like wearing a sign that read: “I’m fat, but it’s not my fault.”

I was in a state of shock. Of all the problems I was prepared to face with cancer and lupus, I never for a moment considered obesity. It didn’t seem fair. Weren’t two illnesses enough?

I couldn’t cope with the weight gain, so I tried to stop the Elavil four times in the past year. My symptoms of fatigue and pain returned so quickly that I spend most of my time in bed--precious, valuable time.

I fought the battle inside and out. I felt guilty about the smug attitude I’d harbored toward fat people all my life, for now I had to live with my own prejudice. I carried a picture in my wallet to show people what I really looked like. I wanted them to see the sharp angles of my old face instead of the classic puffy “chipmunk cheek” look of the person on steroids.

I tried to lose weight every way possible but was sabotaged by the drugs each time.

Then I read an article by Liz Carpenter, who was Lady Bird Johnson’s press secretary at the White House. Recovering from breast cancer, she referred to herself as a “spa dropout,” saying she had gone up and back from 165 to 195 many times. She went on to say that she had finally accepted her weight and that she wished everyone else could accept theirs, too. She was busy leading and loving her life.

That did it.

The last I checked I was 170 and rising, but I’ve gotten rid of my scale. If my clothes feel tight, I’ll buy new ones and give the tight ones to the organizations that feed and clothe the homeless. I bet they’d be delighted to have enough food to be able to gain my extra pounds.

I no longer bemoan my weight but look at it as a small price to pay for the drugs that have kept me alive and comfortable for nine extra years. I am fulfilled, happy, serene, have more friends and love than anyone is entitled to, and can’t wait to get out of bed each morning.

Gone are my bikinis, my capri pants and my miniskirts. I now have a closet full of muumuus, caftans and jogging suits, the wardrobe of the wide. I agree with the experts who say that we put too much emphasis on being thin in our country, a misplaced value that is turning some of our teen-agers into visions of Dachau.

Nine years have passed since my diagnosis, nine years of love, friendship, travel and boundless creativity. Nine years I thought I would never have, nine years of just being here.

I’ve had many opportunities to demonstrate hope and courage for other cancer patients, a shared ministry of healing.

When you run into me, look at the muumuu if you like, but don’t forget to look up at the chubby, puffy face. All over it you will see signs of life, serenity and joy, the joy of a nine-year life extension that continues to glow in the face of incurable disease.