My older sister, Jan, visited me in San Francisco last spring. “You look great,” I told her, noticing that her clothes were hanging loose; she’d been heavy most of her life. “I’ve lost 60 pounds,” she said, and I automatically congratulated her.
“I wasn’t trying,” she replied.
It hit me then that something was very wrong, first with her health, but also with the way I assumed that her weight loss was a sign of well-being. My own judgments and shame associated with being fat got in the way of seeing my sister. Looking closer, her face seemed strained, and despite the constant smile she turned on, she wasn’t well. She told me that she’d been in so much pain that she’d had little appetite for months.
I asked Jan if she’d seen a doctor. She had, but it hadn’t gone well. The doctor she’d known for years had converted his practice into a concierge service, and she hadn’t wanted to pay the extra $15,000 to stay with him. So she’d made an appointment with an OB-GYN a friend had recommended. Jan’s eyes welled up as she described the visit.
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