Weight Weight, Don’t Tell Me.
by Stephanie Kemp
The only thing worse than having to lose your hair (again) because of a cancer relapse, is having to get on the scale over and over and over again because of that same cancer relapse (and after you have gained back all the weight you lost when you had cancer in the first place).
Actually, there are three things that might be worse:
1. You are not SURE you will lose (all of) your hair again.
2. You may have gained back even more weight than when you started your cancer journey.
3. You have cancer again. (This one is definitely worse.)
That said (and because I really like the title of this piece), let’s not lose focus.
If you met me (or know me), you would think I look exactly the same, whether I’m at the high end (college, babies, cocktails, cheese) or the low end (1986 Weight Watchers, film production, chasing children, cancer) of my body’s natural weight range.
This is actually lucky (for me), since the high end of my range is 160 (shhhhh.....) and the low end is 133 (wheeee!), even though my body is happiest (and healthiest) around a buck forty eight.
You would only ever notice a difference in my weight if:
• You are my husband (maybe).
• We go swimming together a few times a year or decade.
• You inappropriately or accidentally touch my middle at a wedding or any other kind of drunken family (or friend or work or summer camp) reunion. (I purposely left out high school because I just had a blast at my 40th reunion, where everyone was appropriate, even when/if a little drunk).
The only people who seem to give a shit about the numbers on the scale are Me, Myself and I, probably because I am a female human being in the United States of America in 2026 (or most other years).
I share this not because I am bragging about being able to visually take or leave 30ish pounds, but because I am tired of dreading the scale and have devised three new plans I think are worth sharing with any/all other people (probably mostly women and girls) who also don’t like being weighed all the time (or ever):
1. Demand to be weighed in metrics. (We never learned the metric system in America, so pounds to kilograms is like English delivered in Japanese - no chance of any kind of meaningful comprehension, at least if you are the person that is me.)
2. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. (Different context, just as complicated.)
3. “Eat food. Mostly plants. Not too much.” - Michael Pollan
My former go-to plan at a doctor’s appointment was a simple refusal to step on the scale if I was feeling bloat-y or constipated (or just full of delicious breakfast), but now that my med dosage-ing often depends on my weight du jour (and is related to my potential and hopeful cancer cure), that’s a no-go.
Plus, I am tired of giving so much power to a number as it appears through a tiny plastic screen while I try to postpone my scrambled eggs and toast (possibly with a side of fruit unless bacon is available) until after my (hopefully) early morning appointment.
I was telling some version of this story to my eighteen year old daughter after she had her last pediatrician’s appointment (ever), thinking it would make her feel better about the universal lament over this part of any medical visit, when she said:
“Wow. Mom. Even you think about it? We are never done with this, are we?”
And just like that,
I. Am. Done!
But then…….(because, of course), I stumbled upon one potentially complicating factor while eavesdropping on my nurses.*
It seems to me (from eavesdropping), that my current weight is what determines the amount of Cytoxan I am getting for this next round of treatment. (Cytoxan is one of the chemo drugs that makes you lose your hair.)
The difference in necessary dosage from my 133 tiniest self to my 148(ish) current/healthiest self may make the difference in whether or not I lose my hair…again.
This sucks shit balls in whatever system you’re measuring in (not to mention English, Japanese and any/every other language you may or may not know) and gets extra confusing because I, for the most part, feel great. (They are giving me this lymphodepleting chemo to take my body down a notch in preparation for the CAR T cells to win the war during my upcoming two week hospitalization/writing retreat.)
So....My body is strong because it’s at its fighting weight and my hair has to be punished because of more Cytoxan?
Maybe I’m Not Done…
Because while I am really proud of (and grateful for) my body, as evidenced by this poem I wrote, once:
I also really like my hair. Especially (and almost impossibly) the current version that has worked so hard to get back to our life together. I might even have to rewrite the ending of another poem I wrote for my daughters when they were little and chronically hated their hair:
No matter what, I will need be careful as I sort my next steps. My daughters are watching, hopefully while eating more plant based foods.
(And to make things even more complicated, one of them even speaks Japanese…)
______________
*I just asked my favorite nurse, _____________ (privacy, people!), about my Cytoxan theory.
Apparently I am only a little bit (sort of) right (adjacent). Maybe I don’t have to be so mean (or ready to blame) regular weight me after all. (Or ever.)
I will circle back after I do a little research on BSA (otherwise known as Body Surface Area) conversion calculations….maybe.
(I just hope I don’t get too good at metrics in the process.)
But at any rate (and any weight), I stand by the rest of what I wrote and feel, even if you never hear from me again (at least in the form of this personal essay, now that I am done talking about weight).
Ps/Pardon the pun, if you are reading this and are a doctor, please feel free to weigh in here. (I am not kidding.)
Pps. I can’t wait to get out of the hospital and (probably) see you and talk to you about any/everything else.
I will call you.
