“I, uh, I like to hike with my sons,” I lie. When Andrew and John were little, Thomas would occasionally get a twig in his shorts that we needed to embrace the California lifestyle, so we would take the boys into the Sierra Nevada mountains to commune among the sugar pines. That pursuit ended as soon as John and Andrew were old enough that we could pay thousands of dollars to send them away to hike trails andswim in lakes at sleepaway camp in upstate New York like the good East Coast boys they should be.
When Dr. Kwan finishes massaging my breasts and probing my cervix, she tells me to go ahead and get dressed while she steps out to find Patty and those pamphlets. I dress quickly and hop back on the exam table at the precise moment Dr. Kwan pops in again after giving the door an efficient knock.
When she tucks her dark silky hair behind her ears, I notice Dr. Kwan has flawless diamond drop earrings hanging from tiny lobes. She isn’t even old enough for her pierced holes to be stretched out from years of wearing dangling jewels. As I scan her serious face while she finishes tapping out a last note, I see there is not one worry line or wrinkle. My best guess is, this is a result of youth and being born into the sunscreen generation. I bet she can keep her pants on from morning to bedtime, not yet saddled with the bloating that inevitably comes from eating breakfast and lunch. I doubt she has ever swapped out structured pants for loose drawstring ones and called it dinner attire.
“Callie, it’s time to make some changes,” Dr. Kwan announces, standing tall in her heels as I sit slouched on the exam table.
No shit.If it doesn’t say in my file that Thomas left me, then it certainly doesn’t say that I have been aggressively trying to sell my house and get the hell out of Sacramento. Or maybe it does. It was no secret between Dr. Newman and me that I lived my life only one full packing day away from being able to hightail it east, but I doubt he ever noted geographic dissatisfaction as a medical concern in my records.
“Oh, trust me, I know it’s time for a change. My house has been on the market for over nine months. I’m trying to sell it and move back to New York to be closer to my college friends. Any chance you’re looking to buy? It’s a great home to raise kids in.” I realize I don’t even know if she’s partnered up or wants kids, and it’s rude as hell of me to assume, but I don’t care. I will jump at any chance to offload my Colonial.
“Callie, have you ever heard the saying ‘Wherever you go, there you are’?”
“Yeeaah,” I draw out in response to my doctor-turned-Yoda.
“Location is not your issue, Callie. At least, not as far as my professional medical opinion is concerned. Your health is,” Dr. Kwan informs me matter-of-factly, not at all invoking the gentle bedside manner and comforting charm of Dr. Newman. “Whether you are here or somewhere else, the truth is, you’re five foot five and one hundred seventy-five pounds. For a woman your age, carrying around excess weight can be terribly disruptive to sleep patterns. Disrupted sleep patterns can affect your mood and lead to poor food choices. And then, of course, the heavier we are, the less we want to move.”
The heavierweare?Looking at my tits-on-sticks of a doctor, I’m not sure there is anywein this monologue. Dr. Kwan definitely missed the point of all the pop-music, body-positive lyrics while she was head down in medical school textbooks.
“In addition to gaining thirty-five pounds since your last visit, which is placing undue stress and strain on your joints”—and shrinking three-quarters of an inch,though Dr. Kwan chooses not to nitpick that recent shortcoming—“for a woman your age, your blood pressure is high and your heart rate is elevated. And though we still need to complete a series of blood tests, it’s probable that you are prediabetic and that your LDL cholesterol is high as well.” Dr. Kwan finally pauses, allowing her advisement ofa woman your ageto settle in.
“I’m also concerned about your overall bone health, since women who are overweight and don’t exercise regularly in their fifties often have lower bone density in relation to their body weight and are, therefore, at a higher risk of fractures.” I swear Dr. Kwan pronouncesfiftieslike my age is a fatal diagnosis. “Along with your blood tests, I am ordering a DEXA scan to screen for osteoporosis. All these unhealthy risk factors make you a prime candidate for heart disease and a possible heart attack, which is the number one killer of women. I can’t reiterate enough, Callie, that it’s time to make some serious lifestyle changes, or your next thirty years are not going to be quality ones. Adjust your diet to include more plants, protein, and whole grains. Don’t even touchthe processed stuff. Cut back on alcohol—it actually exacerbates hot flashes. And most important, move more. These are all things that will help with your sleep, brain function, muscle retention, and mood.”
How can Dr. Kwan accurately assess my temperament? I have been nothing but grudgingly delightful since entering this current mean-girl scene.
“Have you thought about starting a running program? You know, taking on a new challenge? Sacramento is full of great parks and running paths.”
I let that last question linger in the air between us, my face slack, hoping my lack of answer and dead-eyed expression make it crystal clear I have never thought about running. Not once.
Clearing her throat to break the pause between us, Dr. Kwan backpedals and revises her delivery. “Callie, our goal here isn’t short-term vanity, it’s improved overall health and longevity.” She did not just say the L-word to me. “It’s time to restart taking care of yourself, and that begins with exercise.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Kwan, but did you just call me fat?”
Chapter Seven
Present
After handing the pamphlets to me, Dr. Kwan shared that Nurse Patty would be calling to review my lab results in the next few days. Dr. Kwan then ended our less-than-enjoyable time together by opening the door to my patient room and announcing to me and everyone walking the hall that I needed to schedule a follow-up appointment in six months so she can assess my progress vis-à-vis the advice in the folded mint-green and pale-yellow papers. Waiting a year, she proclaimed, would not be in the best interest of my long-term well-being. I responded to Dr. Kwan’s suggestion to read up by tossing her lifestyle pamphlets in the medical building lobby’s wastepaper basket and then texting Lisa from the parking lot:Who’s your doctor? I’m looking to change.
Dr. Kwan’s brain may be full up on medical knowledge, but her slim-hipped, fat-free body belies the truth of what it is to be a woman, let alone a middle-aged one. While I had told Patty I didn’t want to know my exact weight and she had obliged, after stating that I had gained thirty-five pounds, Dr. Kwan showed off her quantitative skills and disclosed out loud the number no one wants to hear unless it matches the weight on her driver’s license. With the image of “175” flashing hot in my head like an Amber Alert, Dr. Kwan launched into mealtime advice like she thought I didn’t know that veggies should be half my plate and protein should be the size of my fist. I cooked likethat for over twenty years, but the pilot light goes out overnight when, suddenly, the only person to cook for regularly is myself. The instant gratification of opening a bag of salty snacks and dealing with the guilt later—all in the name of dinner and a clean kitchen—is tough to beat. Ask any woman who has raised a family and thought of nothing other than meals, meals, meals for far more years than she cares to count. No kidding I should only shop the periphery of a grocery store, but heading right down the middle to where the chips and cookies live is the most direct path to personal satisfaction and the checkout line.
All the talk of adjusting how I live my life has made me hungry. I visualize what I have in my fridge and come up with some gazpacho that needs to be finished, a bottle of chilled chardonnay, and a half loaf of sourdough bread that’s a few days old, but if I sprinkle some drops of water on top before heating it in the microwave and smother it in butter, it should soften right up. As I roll up to a familiar stop sign in my neighborhood, I look to my right and see a white insect-extermination van with its phone number painted in jumbo numbers along the side. After the 916 area code, the next three numbers, in bloodred paint, are “175,” my weight for all the world to read. Mr. Exterminator himself is standing outside his van, leaning against the driver’s-side door, talking on the phone. When he sees me staring at him, he points at the number, telling me to give him a call, or perhaps calling me out because he happens to be on the phone with Dr. Kwan in some weird weight-watching conspiracy.
“Hey, lady!” I hear someone yell, and then feel a hard pounding on the hood of my SUV vibrate through my seat. I slam on my brakes as the voice projects through my serene residential neighborhood: “What the hell!”
Whipping my gaze from the van, I look out the front window of my car and see I’ve rolled into the crosswalk. A cell phone skids through the intersection as the car to my left at the four-way stop is about to run it over.
“You almost hit me! Did you not see that stop sign?” A startled man is charging toward my open window, pointing aggressively, first at the sign and then to me, no doubt ready to give me an earful.
How many times has Thomas told me not to crank the air-conditioning and have my window open at the same time? I can’t close the window now; I would only be feeding into the rampant stereotype that a privileged woman is afraid of every man except her husband, though I have reasons I probably should have been wary of him too.
Drips of sweat from the man’s youthful face land on my car door as he props his arms on my roof and leans into my window. His nylon tank clings to his chest, and I can easily make out the definition of his firm pecs. I avert my eyes from his lower half after noting that the running shorts he’s wearing are smaller than anything I’ve had the guts to put on since turning forty. Licking his lips, he looks like he’s moistening them to further rip me apart for not paying attention. For being clueless. Self-involved. An idiot. After the day I’ve had, it could be any one of these things. I open my mouth to explain my actions but come up empty, not knowing what to say. I’m too mortified to admit that I didn’t, in fact, see him, so consumed was I by the ant man advertising my weight to the world.
“That was my best running vid yet, and now my phone’s busted before I got to post! Man, my followers would have loved it!” Wait, what? He was making a video? Maybe I’m not the only self-involved one here.
“Uh, oh gosh, um, are you okay?” I finally mumble, not wanting to anger this man any more than he already is. Rather than make eye contact, I reach over to open my glove compartment and rummage through it for my registration and proof of car insurance.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, lady. No need to go for your piece; I didn’t even make a dent in your car. I was only telling you to be careful.”
