Fighting the monster of morbid obesity

New medicines help in weight loss effort, but the psychological weight still hurts

Regular readers of these paragraphs know of my public struggle with morbid obesity.

I wrote about it in a candid blog published on the website of the local Gannett outlet store during my time as a columnist there.

Those were better days. I started a physical therapy and intense workout program in conjunction with a manageable diet plan.

I started at 563 pounds in 2015. Over the next 18 months, I lost more than 125 pounds.

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I worked out at CrossFit Merle Hay with my friend Nate Yoho. I deadlifted 500 pounds. I pulled the rower and did burpees.

I lowered my A1C from over 8 to 5.2. I stopped taking diabetic medication.

I felt tremendous momentum and motivation.

However, I also managed chronic depression and acute anxiety. Three times I had to take leave from the newspaper to get treatment.

The bosses changed my job, ending my column, and shifting me to other duties.

I lost control of my schedule and my appearances at the gym dropped off.

Then the pandemic came, and Gannett laid me off.

I was out of work for most of the next two years. I went to graduate school at Drake University to earn my teaching license.

For my first three semesters, we were 100% online. I rarely left the house.

Depression and anxiety ruled my days. I used food as therapy in the worst possible way.

I kept gaining weight until I started to use a cane. My already arthritic knees stiffened; every step became painful.

One day, I landed awkwardly on my left leg and heard a pop. I tore the meniscus in my left knee.

My doctors wanted me to get an MRI, but I now weighed 589 pounds — too heavy for the sensitive equipment anywhere in the metro or at the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics.

My orthopedic surgeon called Blank Park Zoo to see if I could get an MRI there.

Zoo officials said no. The equipment wasn’t calibrated for humans.

It was a hell of a bad day to find out I was too fat to get an MRI on the same equipment that finds deep tissue damage in elephants.

I found a surgeon who would do exploratory surgery and remove the meniscus in a laparoscopic procedure.

The recovery was painful, and I didn’t keep up with my physical therapy appointments. Soon, I was using a walker.

A deep, unyielding shame filled me. I hated myself. I still can’t stand to catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror. I feel like a monster.

When the 2021 fall semester came, Drake reopened classrooms. I showed up to classes the first day and even with the walker, I could barely get to classes.

I arranged to take one class virtually. I limped through student teaching and my first year of teaching.

My legs hurt all the time. I got cortisone shots every three or four months. I tried to go as long as I could because eventually, the shots will stop working.

When that fateful day arrives, I’ll either have knee replacement surgery or get fitted for a wheelchair.

Currently, I’m too obese to be a good candidate for knee replacement surgery. There’s a chance I wouldn’t survive the surgery and if I did, the recovery would be nearly impossible.

About a year ago, my doctor prescribed Mounjaro, a once-a-week injection designed to regulate my blood sugar levels.

The medicine also reduces food cravings and contributes to weight loss.

I was willing to try anything. My A1C, which measures your blood sugar over three months, was 8.4, the highest it had ever been.

It worked. There were side effects, mostly gastrointestinal, but I managed.

Food cravings dramatically reduced. I seldom found myself thinking about food or eating out of boredom or anxiety.

Last week, I visited the doctor. Since I started the injections, I’ve lost 50 pounds. My A1C dropped to 6. My doctor was so pleased she took me off one of the medicines I take for diabetes.

The weight loss provided immediate gratification: I lasted almost seven months between cortisone shots for my knees.

The more time I can put between shots, the better chance I have of getting in position to have replacement surgery if that day comes.

I’m not fit by any stretch of the imagination. I still hate to see my reflections and comments about my fatness, regardless of source, always hurt. Every. Time.

I’m not even as healthy when I could go to CrossFit two or three days awake. My legs can’t bend like that anymore and I fear falling.

But it feels like I’m getting better.

Of course, there’s a shortage of Mounjaro. Demand has overwhelmed drug maker Lilly’s ability to produce it. My pharmacist says it could be two months or more before new stock arrives.

My doctor prescribed Ozempic, a similar drug, but has been less successful in encouraging weight loss.

Regardless, with Mounjaro nowhere to be had, I start Ozempic next week. I’m worried about losing ground.

My doctor, a kind and wonderful human, encourages me to be positive and enjoy the losses I’ve made.

I try, but I am not good at being kind to myself. Few things in society are mocked more than a fat person.

I hear the way my students talk about large people. I hear the way adults in many settings talk about weight.

And I read my description of myself as “a monster.”

I know that I have it easier than women, who face an impossible standard of beauty.

I also have it easier than younger people because I am not inclined to photograph or make videos of my every moment and publish them online for judgment.

Still, when I glimpse myself in the mirror, I look away.

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Daniel P. Finney, a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, wrote for newspapers for 27 years before being laid off in 2020. He teaches middle school English now.

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