A few years ago, I was sat in my GP’s office, scared and desperate for help.

I was suffering from constant gastric pain, vomiting and difficulty eating, with an uncomfortable stabbing feeling in my stomach that would sometimes last up to an hour at a time.

But as the doctor looked at me with disdain, I knew what his advice would be: ‘lose weight’.

Ironically, I was already in the process of strenuous dieting – which I had told him – but this wasn’t the first time I’d been dismissed by a medical professional because of my size.

As a chronically-ill fat woman, I frequently face medical bias and so I accepted the consensus that fat is bad and thin is good, and tightened my already drastic food intake.

This advice would end up almost killing me.

Over the next few months, my symptoms did not improve. I began having prolonged periods of excruciating pain, and was unable to eat, move or sleep for days at a time. It was torture.

I saw more doctors, and each time they prescribed weight loss, I sunk further. I told them I was hardly eating and had already lost a lot of weight, but they didn’t seem to care.

As a person who was already experiencing mental health issues, the negative reactions crushed me.

I knew something was very wrong, but a big part of me believed that it was my fault. I was trapped in a mindset of self-loathing and questioned whether I even deserved help. 

About a year after the initial appointment, I went into A&E with pain so bad I could barely talk. I had thrown up so much that bile and blood was all that remained.

And still, I was dismissed – by a deeply unpleasant male doctor who accused me of exaggerating my symptoms and implied I was looking for drugs, while searching my arms for any signs of drug use.

He gave me a cup of Peptac to help with gastroesophageal reflux (which I promptly threw up soon after) and sent me home.

I knew that I was ill, but being looked down upon is exhausting. I felt defeated and didn’t have the strength to push for better care.

A few hours later, my mum came to see me at my flat and found me in bed, barely able to breathe through the pain. I was sat hunched over, unable to straighten or lie down, and groaned at the slightest movement.

Shocked, she drove me back to A&E and it wasn’t until she, someone who is fighting fit, was there to advocate for me, that I was finally taken seriously.

A simple blood test was ordered and I was diagnosed with pancreatitis.

By the time the results came back however, my body had gone into shock. Doctors said that had I not returned to A&E that night to receive treatment, I could have likely died.

I spent several days in the high-dependency unit (when you are at risk of needing intensive care), where I was catheterised, fed via fluids and given a morphine pump. I was so sick that I have no recollection of those first days in hospital.

The doctors who failed to provide correct treatment did not apologise, however the consultant who treated me after diagnosis was very kind.

Afterwards, I discovered that although I didn’t fit the usual profile for pancreatitis, I did have classic symptoms. If anyone had taken a minute to listen to me, I could have been diagnosed much sooner.

Pancreatitis can be fatal when not treated and the years I spent yo-yo dieting were likely the cause behind the illness.

In the years after my diagnosis I underwent various tests to pin down why I was having pancreas and gallbladder issues.

The only credible hypothesis that doctors could give me was my history of extreme weight loss and gain. 

Body positivity has slowly crept into the public conversation in recent years. But while it might seem like diversity is gaining ground, beneath the surface fat-phobia still thrives.

I really believe that if I hadn’t been a fat woman, I would have received better care.

I’m not alone; a study of US patients from 2005 revealed that persons with higher weights are three times as likely to report being having been denied appropriate medical treatment. 

Another piece of research, from 2013, on trainee nurses, doctors and dieticians in the UK, showed participants ‘demonstrated significant levels of fat-phobia’.

If almost dying wasn’t horror enough, I have since been diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Pain specialists I have been treated by conclude that the trauma of a prolonged period of undiagnosed acute illness is likely the trigger.

I will now deal with chronic pain for the rest of my life. 

Almost every medical issue I’ve ever had, no matter how unconnected, involves discussion of my size. Each time, I have to push for doctors to look harder, and this often forces me to identify possible problems through my own research.

When I tell medical professionals that I don’t want to discuss weight loss, I’m usually ignored.

Even when I am brutally honest about my history of restricting myself from eating and purging, weight loss remains a priority. My mental wellbeing is dismissed.

Change is possible. A combination of education and self-advocacy could bring us closer to health equality.

Firstly, size bias and stigma must be challenged, especially in medical spaces. In my opinion focus should also be shifted from weight loss to a ‘Health at Every Size’ approach, which celebrates body diversity and looks beyond numbers on a scale.

In the meantime, I encourage everyone to fight for the care they deserve.

Don’t give up if you feel stonewalled. Ask doctors what treatment they would suggest for slimmer patients with your symptoms, and if you are denied testing, ask for it to be noted in your records along with an explanation for the refusal.

Don’t be scared to insist on a second opinion. Everyone is entitled to the same standard of medical care, regardless of their weight.

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