I was sitting in the living-room in my pyjamas before dawn this morning, drinking tea and seeing if I could get both eyes to stay open at the same time, and listening to the radio, or, at least, not actively tuning the radio out, when a story came on about how obesity is the new grand blame-catcher for fatal complications in pregnancy and labour. It’s the sort of story my ears insist on hearing even as the rest of me sings ‘lalala not listening not listening,’ – I am an infertile fat woman, after all.
At the end of the story, the radio also mentioned the 19-and-a-half stone (that’s about 270 pounds) woman who is exercising to reduce the risks to herself and her pregnancy. I have nothing but best wishes for her, and her family, and her pregnancy, which I hope stays as healthy as can be, and I admire her for allowing herself to be interviewed on the subject. I must emphasize that very strongly.
Because on hearing that she was pregnant at over 19 stone, and that she had been even heavier when she bore her first child – I’m so sorry, but rage, pure, acid rage nearly blew the top of my head right off. I think I sat quite still for several minutes, leaning my head on H’s torso as he stood beside me and stroked my hair (bless him) and tried and tried to force down the outraged sense of unfairness that was half-choking me. 19 stone! If you took me, measured out something over a third of my entire body weight in solid lard, and poured that back into my trousers with me, I’d be that size. And I am told again and again that my weight is preventing me from getting pregnant. My weight! How the hell can my weight be such a problem for me? I’m nowhere near the size of other lucky, lucky women. But I’m the one whose weight is stopping her getting pregnant.
It’s amazing what triggers the dagger-to-the-heart, isn’t it? I’ve been placidly enjoying seeing pregnant ladies, and adorable infants, and hearing gorgeous little tales about how cute my niece is, or my new cousin is, without so much as a twinge (wistfulness, I’ll confess to). One perfectly nice lady not losing her fertility as she struggles with her weight, and I am all Bitter McTwisted of Clan Unreasonable.
And I can’t get over it. I am something like 80 pounds lighter than her. I am the one with a weight-related fertility problem.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Me, I think doctors talk much out of their arses on this subject. I have to think this, or my head will detonate. Which is untidy.