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

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.”

She waited. My voice shrank.

“It’s like a horrible scratchy mouse in my head squeaking that everyone thinks I’ve failed and I can’t live my real life until I’m thin. I should hide. It’s so stupid to be 47 and thinking this. I mean, I know that. But I have the mouse. But I don’t trust the mouse. I don’t know what’s right.”

She asked if my body size made my daily life difficult or kept me from exercise. I told her that I feared taking the drugs would make me lose interest in sharing food with my family. She told me the side effects that her other patients experienced. We talked about my sleep apnea. She said that she’d see if my insurance would cover Mounjaro, despite my unremarkable A1C.

I nodded my agreement. “But I’m going to think about it for two weeks before I take any shots,” I