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Diagnosis: Fat!

I was hanging out with some friends the other day (yes, I have friends). As we always do, we were telling the same old recycled stories we always do, while laughing at them as hard as we always do.

It occurred to me, in that moment, that my new blog has given me a new venue to tell these stories and I thought I would share one with you right now.

It all began with some back pain.

I had been experiencing some pretty severe hip and back pain for a few months before I finally decided to go to the doctor to discuss it.

He did some tests but in the end decided it would be best for me to see a specialist.

I’m going to interrupt the story here to let you know that for about 3 years, I dealt with a pretty intense bout of hypochondria. I probably visited the emergency room more than some doctors and that’s no lie.

So to hear that I was going to see a specialist was both good and bad news.

The good news was that I was going to see the magical specialist who would fix all my problems and send me on my way.

The bad news was that my doctor didn’t know what was wrong and I was going to a specialist because I was most likely going to die.

5 months later…my turn in the specialist appointment line had come. I waited patiently in the bacteria pit and taunted the other patients with my strut as my name was called.

I gave the doctor my test results and he looked them over in a very serious manner. He asked questions about my work life and general habits which I feel I answered to the best of my abilities.

After what felt like an hour (probably more like 3 minutes), he was ready for the diagnosis. Here is a word for word account of the results.

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Doctor: “Okay, so here’s what I want you to do”

Me: (Very excited at the possibility of recovery) “Okay, I’m listening” (Notepad and pen ready because I forget things)

Doctor: “I need you to go to a Wal-Mart or Department Store”

Me: “Okay, great!”

Doctor: “You’re going to go in there and you’re going to want to buy yourself a good scale”

Me: “Scale. Got it!” (Huh? He’s a doctor, so we soldier on, no questions asked)

Doctor: “Then you’re going to go home and stand on it. Then write down the number.”

Me: “Write down the number. Check!”….”Like my weight, you mean?”

Doctor: “Yeah, your weight. After that, I want to you to get on it again each day and make the number equal less than the day before”

Me: (Pathetic, fat, hypochondriac finally gets the message) “Yes sir…”

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At first I was mortified at the response and even a little angry. That was actually one of the first times in my life I had been called fat and I’ll never forget it.

It was also one of the first moments that made me realize how ridiculous my obsession with dying had become. I can’t say I’ve done the best job with his advice from that day but I have managed to conquer my anxiety towards death and that’s a big step for me…and for my wife, who I’m sure was getting tired of all the complaining!

Don’t worry, I still complain. The difference is that now I complain about real issues, like why I have to do dishes or why the cars drive so fast on our street when there are so many kids outside playing.

In the end, the angry from the diagnosis subsided at about the same time that I told the story to my friends for the first time. The laughter that ensued at my expense made me grateful to have had the experience at all.

Hope you all have a great day!!!

Cheers!!!