I’m giving weight drug a shot, just like Oprah

Like many others this past week, I watched “An Oprah Special: Shame, Blame and the Weight Loss Revolution,” which celebrated weight loss with prescription drugs Ozempic, Wegovy and Mounjaro. Sometime last year when I saw Oprah Winfrey’s much thinner body on my screen, she was on the red carpet. My immediate thought was: “Wow! She must be on

Ozempic.”

I hated that I thought that. Ozempic — and fat people — are the common butt of jokes. I grew up watching Oprah’s struggles with weight. I struggled, too. I was a fat kid. I remember planning my first diet, writing in a notebook, “Little tacos. Little rice. Little beans.”

Sometimes, I laugh at that memory, but mostly, I’m sad for that little girl.

I’m happy for Oprah, who at 70, might finally be done with public ridicule for her weight, thanks to a prescription drug. She and her guests were candid about losing — and regaining — weight. In the way only she can do, Oprah told the story of how, for some people, weight gain isn’t the result of inadequate willpower. I felt seen and validated.

I’ve been trying to willpower my way to a thinner body since I was a kid. The annual physical assessment during P.E. that we endured as kids included a humiliating height and weight check.

In my white First Communion dress, I felt huge, but by the time I had my quinceañera, I had lost weight. I played sports and skipped meals, sometimes only eating a pickle for lunch. I obsessively exercised at home, often wearing a plastic sauna suit.

I wanted to be as thin as the celebrities that didn’t look like Oprah — and all the girls in school who didn’t look like me. I was finally able to wear jeans in the single digits, but not for long.

In my 20s, I struggled to lose the 100 pounds I gained during my pregnancy, complicated by preeclampsia and gestational diabetes. I tried to exercise and cut calories. I underwent gastric bypass surgery and lost more than 100 pounds — and the diabetes.

Over the years, I’ve gained back some of the weight. There aren’t many diets or weight loss programs I haven’t tried. When there’s something new, I give it a shot — including that shot.

When I first tried Ozempic at the end of 2022, I was slowly beginning to lose weight. But on a quest to save on insurance premiums for 2023, I dropped my health insurance and went on my husband’s plan. But his health insurance didn’t cover Ozempic (which costs more than $1,000 per month retail) for nondiabetics. Our health care industry favors treating — not preventing or curing — obesity.

At 43, I’m fortunate not to have diabetes, high blood pressure or other chronic conditions. But I look to my relatives, most of whom struggle with weight and chronic health problems, and see my not-sodistant future.

Last fall, I began getting weekly generic semaglutide injections at a clinic on the North Side, where I was told that because of nationwide shortages, they get the drug from a compounding pharmacy. By Nov. 4, I was in an emergency room with severe stomach pain and vomiting. The hospital staff did tests, gave me pain medication and sent me home (the bill was not fully covered by insurance).

At the North Side clinic, I was told no other patient had my experience, but I can’t help but think of the FDA’s warnings about generic semaglutide, which is not FDA-approved or evaluated for safety and effectiveness.

In January, I opted to get health insurance through my employer. I recently began Mounjaro injections. I’m grateful and hopeful.

Like Oprah and 42% of Americans who struggle with their weight, I’m over the shame and blame and being the butt of jokes and judgment. All bodies are different sizes for different reasons. I just want to make mine as healthy as it can be.

During an early morning exercise class at the gym this past week, our instructor ended with stretches and advice.

“None of that Ozempic around here,” he joked. “Feed your muscles protein, within 20 minutes.”

I wonder if he missed Oprah’s special.

Winfrey