My Doctor Prescribed Me A Weight Loss Drug. Here's How It Ended Up In The Trash.

"I could keep chasing thinness. Keep tying my life to it. Or I could let the quest go. Just let it go."

My doctor didn’t tell me I was too fat at my September physical. She didn’t tell me my hemoglobin A1C level was too high — a critical sign of diabetes risk. She didn’t tell me that if I took weight loss drugs my joints would thank me, or I’d feel less anxiety, or I’d live longer for my kid, or I’d have better sex.

She said the choice was up to me.

“Yes, you weigh more than last year. Your BMI is very high,” she said while clacking a keyboard and looking at a monitor. “But, your biomarkers are all fine. It’s the Wild West of these drugs — that’s the truth. A lot of my patients have lost a lot of weight with them. If you want to try, I’ll support you.”

I started to cry. I didn’t want to cry, so I stared at the print of Gustav Klimt’s ”Mother and Child” that she’s had in this exam room for a decade. I made myself lean back in my chair.

“Well.” I rubbed my nose. “Fine. OK, look. I’m ashamed sometimes to be in public and not be thin.”