My Mom’s Fat-Shaming Game Has Gained New Weight

The horror of watching my mom insult strangers

My mom has been in a state of accelerated decline since experiencing significant health issues over the past year. One exciting aspect of her declining health is dementia, leaving a wake of awkwardness and destruction for me to deal with.

I think dementia comes for us all at some point. Some get hit harder than others due to a wide array of factors. My mother’s reclusive lifestyle in a tiny mountain town that both time and hope abandoned centuries ago certainly did not help matters.

For those of you who are new to this condition because you’ve never talked to anyone over the age of 40, dementia presents itself in so many charming ways including the complete degradation of one’s filter. Not having a solid base to begin with, things are getting awfully colorful around here.

My mother is also a lifelong fat shamer. A skill she keenly sharpened while raising two daughters — neither of whom come close to registering on the BMI Richter scale. She shamed us relentlessly nonetheless.

My sister bore the brunt of it having a naturally curvier body than me. My mom would always pinch her hips and thighs and make wildly inappropriate comments starting at the emotionally resilient age of 13.

Over the course of our adults lives the threads of her fat-shaming charms have popped up, providing countless opportunities for laughter. My sister and I recognize the absurdity of her fixation. Until recently, we’d been able to pad ourselves with thousands of miles. Now my mother essentially lives in my backyard.

My sister was recently visiting to help move our mother from one senior living situation to another. Over lunch, as I was daintily shoveling a fistful of french fries into my mouth, my mother asked me how much I weighed.

I swallowed and contemplated my options — and then I told her with neither shame nor pride — though I’m not sure why I didn’t make something up knowing what I know about her.

Her loving response was,“And your doctor is okay with that?”

Me: “Well mom, he is actually pretty concerned.”

My mom, really interested now: “What did he say?”

Me: “He told me I should probably cut off my right arm to get down to a suitable weight.”

My sister: “I hate when they tell me that.”

My mom: “Are you two being silly?”

Me: “Yes, mother dearest. We are being silly.”

For the record, I am 5'6", 127 lbs. This is not fat and I know this is not fat because no doctor has ever told me I’m fat. I know this is not fat because I’ve never felt fat, despite my mother’s gallant attempts.

Would I, like most women like to lose a few lbs? Of course — but I am 44 years old and often eat queso for dinner. Sure, I could do better, but I also know that life is short and pleasures are few-and-far-between — so I will eat all the queso.

Throughout the course of my mother’s many hospitalizations she would often rail against the nurses for being overweight. She would complain to my sister and me as if their weight was an intentional, personal offense directed at her frail and delusional sensibilities.

Each time someone would knock on her hospital door we’d tense up and say a silent prayer that it was a thin nurse — simply so we wouldn’t have to hear her absurd commentary. But we were not at a hospital in Beverly Hills. We were in a remote, forgotten corner of Upstate New York.

Most recently, I took my mom to a cardiologist. The nurse who greeted us informed her he’d need her weight and she said, “Good! I’m curious to see where I am.” Strap in, this is going to be fun.

She stepped on the scale and shrieked at the number.

For context, when my sister and I rescued her from near-death roughly eight months ago, she was skin and bones. A frail shell of what she’d been mere months prior. She is now far more robust physically, and nowhere near overweight.

The male nurse who was an angel of a human, laughed and said he understood and wouldn’t we all like to lose a few.

She looked him up and down and said, “Yes, I can see that! And shame on you. You should know better.”

I looked up from my Facebook reel dog video.

“Mom!” I yelled forgetting we were in public.

The male nurse laughed.

“No, she’s right. I could definitely stand to lose a few.”

“A few?!” shrieked my rabid mother, now foaming at the mouth.

I shot the nurse a sympathetic look, shook my head and mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”

He waved me off.

My mother is at the age where we can attribute most of the bile that spills out of her mouth as batty-old-lady-syndrome. Yes it’s a real thing. I’m currently writing a Web-MD entry about it.

I knew it was useless to engage my mom and tell her what a rotten thing that was to say. I made a few comments about the joys of being raised by serial a fat-shamer and my mom proudly

proclaimed that she no longer has a filter and doesn’t care.

Yes mommy dearest, we can all see that. Well done.

We finished the appointment and on the way out I was able to catch the eye of the endlessly patient, good-humored nurse who endured my mother’s shameless commentary. He winked at me and waved.

In that moment I knew it was going to be okay. I detached myself from the situation. I was not the one hurling insults. I was not the one bitching and moaning about my weight. I was just an innocent bystander — the daughter of a woman battling batty-old-lady-syndrome.

Onward — to the next queso station I go.