My Obesogenic Personality

“Dr Indu! Forgive me, I did not recognize you for a moment!” the doctor smiled politely, offering me a chair. I smiled a greeting and accepted the seat.

I had lost a lot of blood during my daughter's birth and my gynecologist had recommended an iron preparation that was giving me diarrhea and stomach aches. Since the gynecologist's clinic was too far, my husband suggested we consult a classmate of his who was practicing general medicine in our neighborhood. I knew him well, but we had not met during the past year or so.

My husband Manoj placed my blood report on the table, discussed my anemia, and asked for an iron supplement that would suit my tummy. “Don't you think you’ve gained some weight since we last met?” asked the doctor, without looking at the report, crossing his slim legs at the knees. I had gained 15 kg. “I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better if you lose just ten percent of your weight.”

I hitched up my trouser cuffs to expose swollen feet bursting out of unstrapped sandals.

“It's the weight-bearing joints that are the most affected,” he said.

“Well, it's been nice meeting you!,” said Manoj, as he picked up my blood report from the table and helped me get up. “Come home and we’ll have dinner together some day!”

“Why didn't you let him see the report?” I asked my husband angrily, after leaving the doctor's office. “He should have seen the haemoglobin and the albumin! He wouldn't have harped on the fat issue so much, then!”

“He would’ve made a few more objectionable remarks by then! He's prejudiced against obesity.” Manoj was angry and hurt, and so was I, even though I should have become used to it by now. I’m glad all physicians are not so judgmental!

There had been a time (a very long time ago) when my body mass index (BMI) had been in the normal range, even though I would get urges to eat when I would raid the refrigerator like an enemy's army. I would return to my normal self for months or years. On the night of my Mother's funeral, I took a 500 g packet of digestive biscuits and a bottle of tomato sauce to my room. The combination was strangely comforting. To the bewildered amazement of my grieving relatives, I remember having a voracious appetite at breakfast the next morning. I gained more than 6 kg in the next 20 or so days, when my father caught me sitting in my bed in the dark, stuffing biscuits and weeping silently.

I had always been an introvert. Episodes of illness in childhood confined me to my home twice, for about 6 months each time, during which my friends and classmates moved on. Somehow, I never managed to make lasting friends after that—except for my mother. She had nursed me to health and we developed a bond where we could share each other's thoughts without the constraint of a mother–daughter relationship. Ma soon realized my weakness for food in times of distress and tried to make me talk about my hurts rather than reach for extra calories.

Ma's death left father and me in depression, and the shared loss brought us together. I would return home from college to find him sitting silently in front of her photograph. Placing my books in my room, I would join him, each respecting the other's grief and silence. Afternoon would darken and the daily help entering the house in the evening would switch on the lights.

Being a physician, Daddy recognized my depression and talked me out of it over a period of months. I lost some of the weight that I had gained; but then his death left me devastated. I was now married and expecting my first (and only) child. My husband had no idea I was spending my days stuffing and howling in solitude. A diagnosis of fetal hypoxia confined me to the private ward of the hospital, where kind visitors would bring goodies for gratification. I waddled about like a giant panda in the hospital corridor, but the sympathetic doctors and nurses never seemed to notice. A year after my daughter's birth, I had entered the obese category by virtue of my BMI.

My next bout of unrestrained eating occurred after the death of my pet Labrador. Guddu died in my arms, in extreme pain, with the family surrounding him. That night I purposefully ploughed into a loaf of bread and jam. That night was followed by many others, and this time Daddy wasn't around to stop me on this journey of self-destruction.

When my physician and my husband became aware of my depression, my doctor asked me gently, “I hope you’ll continue fighting?” I was embarrassed; actually, I’d been thinking of permanent solutions. “People feel sad sometimes, when things are not going well,” he said, “but remember, times change. And you can change the time.”

His words took me back to the past. I had scored 2 out of 20 in a class test in Immunology during my Master's course. My parents could feel something awful had happened, but I couldn't make myself speak and tell them. “Did you do badly in a test?” Father asked. I nodded dumbly; and then the tears came, along with my voice. I told them about my score. “Don't you like the subject?” asked Ma. “I don't get on with the teacher. She doesn't bother to conceal her dislike of me. My friends tell me she calls me ‘Fatty’ in my absence. She thinks I’m lazy.” I was the heaviest student in my class, something not so common in India in those days. My parents told me not to depend on the teacher. “Teachers also have to read up their subject,” said Daddy, “she's not teaching you something new; the books are available to you also. This time you lost, but next time, you must win. Time changes; and you must make it change with your efforts!” In the next test, I scored 18 out of 20. Initially, my teacher suspected me of having cheated in the exam, but soon realized I wasn't the tubby slob she had thought me to be. In spite of her negativity, I scored the highest marks in the final examination.

Looking back at my life, I find everyone has to suffer loss, sorrow, hurt, or rejection—my mother had suffered a lot but had never resorted to overeating, neither had my father. Even the pain of cancer metastasis and the knowledge of fast-approaching death had not weakened my mother. She considered her body an external agency that she could control for a limited time and did her best to use it for the benefit of family, friends, and neighbors. The weakness for food was not in the genes.

It's easy to seek the comfort of food when you’re depressed, but after the indulgence, you feel worse. The self-loathing would attack me after a binge. I was jolted out of my self-hatred when my husband observed a fast for my long life. Hindu women observe fasts for their husband's longevity; this was the first time I saw a man fasting for his wife. “You know there is a nice person lurking behind that fat” he said. “Why don't you let that person enjoy life, whatever's left of it, you batty old woman!” “Not old!” I protested, “I feel young on the inside!”

It's more than 20 years now, since my mother's death. Yet, even today I can experience the emptiness I had felt after her death. Am I suffering from prolonged grief, paying the price of having doting parents who babied me for too long, wallowing in self-pity, or do I have an obesogenic personality? Small annoyances motivate me to eat more, and serious troubles make me gravitate towards depression and the fridge. While shopping, I avoid the area where sweets are displayed, but during the billing, I often ask the cashier to add 2 chocolates from the shelf behind him. I love all kinds of foods, and am unfortunately not allergic to any fruit or nut.

My father had told me to list the situations that make me long for food, and those that made me forget it. Depression and weight-related comments top the list for generating hunger pangs, while I forget food when working against deadlines, teaching, and knitting (I seem to knit my worries along with the wool!). India has plenty of stray animals, and I love taking care of them. They are friends who never judge, and their company is a cheap, nonaddictive mood elevator. I would like to recommend something that physicians don't prescribe: a daily dose of kindness to beat depression. While helping others in need, I forget depression, calories, and food. Working according to my list of dos and don'ts has helped me maintain my weight during the past few years.

I hope other people with obesogenic personalities traveling in my boat will find something (hobby/hard work/or an act of kindness) that will help them forget the unpleasantness of life as well as food, make them focus on their achievements, and lead happier and healthier lives. I also hope that physicians will not make their patients ashamed of the excess load they are carrying, or blame them for their obesity, but rather support them with empathy.