Deb­bie’s HUGE Con­fes­sion

I swapped fat for fit­ness to walk down the aisle...

Pick Me Up! Special - - Front Page - Deb­bie Fussey, 36, Hull

As I turned the sausages and crisped up the ba­con un­der the grill, I called up to my hus­band, Paul, 37, to make sure he was all ready for our fun­filled day out ahead.

‘What bet­ter way to start the day than with a full English,’ I said, drool­ing over the feast be­fore us.

‘When don’t we start the day like that?’ Paul replied - only half jok­ing.

I laughed off the joke, as I al­ways did when it came to com­ments about our ‘life­style choices’.

I wasn’t go­ing to open that can of worms – not to­day any­way – we were go­ing to Cleethor­pes sea­side for a ro­man­tic day out, and I wasn’t go­ing to let any­thing ruin it.

I wasn’t a skinny girl, but I was happy and I had a hus­band who loved me - that’s all that mat­tered to me.

Throw­ing on my coat, Paul and I made our way to the bus stop.

It wasn’t ex­actly far away, but by the time we made it there, I was light headed and short of breath.

‘Are you OK, love?’ Paul asked.

‘Yes, fine,’ I puffed.

Tip­ping the scales at a whop­ping 26 stone and strug­gling to squeeze into a size 28 meant this wasn’t ex­actly a rare oc­cur­rence.

Paul flagged down the bus and we were on our way to the sea­side for the day. Some­thing wasn’t right though. I couldn’t catch my breath and it was get­ting worse.

‘Paul, pass me that car­rier bag. NOW,’ I said. Be­fore be­ing able to ask why, I was head­first in the bag, chuck­ing up this morn­ing’s break­fast.

It’s safe to say it wasn’t the most ro­man­tic of jour­neys, and it didn’t get much bet­ter af­ter that, ei­ther.

Paul knew some­thing wasn’t right when I couldn’t keep down a bite of my ba­con and egg sand­wich. ‘Let’s call it a day. You’re clearly not in any fit state for a trip to the beach,’ he said. I didn’t bother try­ing to per­suade him other­wise. He was right – some­thing wasn’t right. We got home and

Paul went to put on the ket­tle. ‘A brew will sort you out.’ As the ket­tle whis­tled, panic started to wash over me.

It sud­denly felt like an ele­phant was sit­ting on my chest.

‘Paul! Paul, I can’t breathe!’ I said, ter­ri­fied. It felt like some­one was stran­gling me. Paul called an am­bu­lance. The last thing I re­mem­ber is Paul hold­ing my hand and the para­medic stand­ing over me. ‘It’s all go­ing to be okay, Mrs Fussey,’ he said. The next five weeks were spent in hos­pi­tal: two in ICU, and three in the out­pa­tient ward. Doc­tors di­ag­nosed me with pneu­mo­nia and told me that if I’d been ad­mit­ted even a day later, I would most likely be dead. It was a tough five weeks and when I was dis­charged, I could barely con­tain my ex­cite­ment. ‘Home at last,’ I sighed as I walked to­wards the front door. You would have thought that be­ing ad­mit­ted to hos­pi­tal with pneu­mo­nia would be enough to con­vince me that some­thing needed to change, but se­cretly I couldn’t wait to or­der a cel­e­bra­tory curry. But as I walked through the door, that all changed. The first thing to catch my eye as I en­tered the liv­ing room was the photo of Paul and I on the day we re­newed our vows. The photo was not flat­ter­ing to say the least. I was at my big­gest then. It was so hu­mil­i­at­ing pick­ing out the dress - I had to go to a spe­cial­ist who made cus­tom dresses for ‘big­ger brides’. It should have been

In com­plete de­nial

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