She came in with  a persistent sore.
They weighed her on the freight scales
because nothing else could do the job.
Over seven hundred fifty.
Her doctor was out, she talked to another,
covering his cases. He said, “We can’t help you.
If you need tests run, they’ll have to be done
In a larger city, with better equipment.
If you need surgery, it will have to be done
In a larger city, with better equipment.
Are you on disability?” She answered, “No,
I work in the accounting department
for the city.” “Really? You’re still working?
How do you get there?” “I telecommute some,
but I drive a pickup when I need to.”
“And you really do still work?
I can give you a prescription
for the skin issue, but you’ve got decisions to make.
Are you resigned to subsist, to scrape by
until you die, which won’t be long
with what you’re doing to yourself,
or are you going to change?”
She went home, sat for five days
surviving then called a hot line
for Overeaters Anonymous.
“I need a miracle,” she told the phone.
That call was twelve years ago today,
and it’s my pleasure, remembering
being on the other end of that call
to give Victoria her twelve-year coin
and to slip it in the pocket of her
size 12 dress!