with each pump of the black bulb,

the blood pressure cuff constricts my arm

like a hungry boa, until I think

my skin will burst open,

and my arm starts to bruise.

When I wince, the nurse says,

“Blame your big arm.”

I scoot off the table and leave.

Dad calls her more prickly

than a West Texas cactus.

With the third appointment,

the doctor just stares at my stomach.

An octopus could be wrapped around my face

and he wouldn’t see it.

I almost moon him,

to see if he’ll notice that,

but my butt deserves better.

I slam the door as I leave.

FORGIVEN

When we get in Dad’s pickup

after the third appointment,

he doesn’t start the engine.

He cries.

I stare out the window as if

the orange wavy W of the Whataburger

sign nearby hypnotizes me.

I can’t look at Dad when he’s crying.

It’ll make me cry.

“I’m so sorry, Ellie.

I wish I’d known your mom

was parading you around town

to doctor after doctor and

letting them treat you like this.”

“I didn’t want to cause

yet another fight by telling you

if you didn’t know.”

“Forgive me?”

I forgive Dad,

but it’s Mom who needs to say

I’m sorry.

ONE SIZE DOES NOT FIT ALL

Doctors are like clothes.

One size does not fit all.

Not even close.

So I try on yet another one.

Regular and oversized chairs

fill the waiting room

so everyone can be comfortable.

“Want to know the number?”

the nurse asks as she weighs me.

I have a choice.

Power.

Rights.

Finally.

I shake my head.

“Okay, then, step on backward.”

Dad makes lame jokes,

trying to ease the tension,

as we wait in the exam room.

After a gentle knock on the door,

it opens.

“Hi. You must be Ellie.”

She looks me in the eyes.

Doesn’t stare at my stomach.

So far, so good.

SPEAK UP, BUTTERCUP

“As they say,

everything’s bigger in Texas.

Six four.

And the weather up here’s just fine,”

she says,

answering the questions

I’m not asking out loud.

“I’m Dr. Vasquez,

but most folks call me

Dr. V.”

She isn’t skinny,

but she’s not obese.

“What brings you here today, Ellie?”

She sits down on the stool.

I swing my feet

dangling over the table

and search for the right words.

“Speak up, buttercup,

or I can’t help you.”

“I’m trying to find a doctor.

One who won’t say,

‘Looked in a mirror lately?’

Or, ‘At least your parents

won’t have to worry about

boys asking you out

in a few years.’

And if you mention bariatric surgery,

I’m leaving.”

I don’t mean to, but I cry.

Dr. V hands me a tissue.

“If all that happened to me,

I’d cry, too.”

She talks all during the exam.