I risked my life for fried chicken
It was time for drastic action
Sneaking a peanut butter sandwich up my sleeve, I peered out of the kitchen door. No sign of Mum. Running upstairs, I climbed into bed and devoured every morsel of the buttery bread.
I didn’t care that I’d had a bowl of pasta a few hours ago.
My mum Rhonda, then 32, was always a healthy type, never had crisps, sweets or full-fat milk in the house.
Only low-calorie yogurt and loads of fruit and veg.
But by the time I was 16, I started breaking the rules.
Stopping off at the chippy on my way home from school, I’d wipe away the grease and hide my habits from Mum.
‘We’ll have to get you a bigger school shirt,’ she sighed one day as a button popped off.
But I couldn’t conceal my late-night binges and snacking for long.
I was getting fatter by the day.
And soon my obsession with food spiralled out of control.
By the time I was
22, I was wearing a
size-20 and weighed 15st.
Mum tried to help, suggesting diet and exercise plans, but I only ate more.
Then, one day, I went to a theme park with friends, queued for hours for a ride.
‘You’re too big for this,’ the roller-coaster worker said.
Cheeks flaming, I realised the safety bar wouldn’t fit over my bulging belly.
How humiliating.
But the embarrassment and the regular insults from strangers in the street weren’t enough to put me off my food.
Starting a nursing job in 2005, I looked after the elderly in a care centre.
‘You’re never going to find a man looking like that,’ one of the pensioners said bluntly.
‘I don’t know how you get around like that,’ another told me.
Smiling through gritted teeth, I’d go home and look at myself in the mirror.
I’d stare with disgust and guilt at the huge apron of fat hanging over me.
Seeing skinny women in the street, I longed to look like them.
By now, I was 20st. But the shame sent me straight to my source of comfort
– food. I lived in the same baggy grey T-shirt and black skirt. Wouldn’t step foot in a high-street clothes shop.
I suffered serious chafing blisters under my arms and breasts, especially during the hot summers in Melbourne, where I live. Gorging on fried food for breakfast, triple toasties for lunch, family bags of crisps for snacks and fried chicken for dinner, it was no surprise when my health got worse. In June 2012, after piling on even more weight, I went to see the doctor. ‘My ankles have been really sore and swollen recently,’ I told him.
‘It’s the weight you’re carrying,’ he said.
After several more trips to the GP with back and ankle pain, he had a stark warning. ‘If you don’t lose weight, you’re not going to make your 40th birthday,’ he said.
I was stunned. I was now 33. ‘We can arrange for you to have a gastric sleeve,’ the doc said. It sounded drastic. But I was 5ft 8in tall, a size-30 – and, at 25st 3lb, morbidly obese.
If I didn’t do anything about it, I’d be dead in seven years...
Friends threw me a party, didn’t recognise me!
The gastric sleeve was a major operation. Part of my stomach would be removed so it’d be much smaller.
It meant I’d get fuller much quicker.
They’d remove a hormone called ghrelin, which triggers hunger.
Still, the GP advised I’d need to lose 2st to qualify for the op. ‘I’ll try,’ I vowed. Determined, I turned to meal-replacement shakes.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Mum asked.
‘I’m certain,’ I told her. The night before the op in May 2015, I threw a ‘food funeral’.
Ordering Chinese and KFC, I wolfed chicken wings, guzzled fizzy drinks. One last binge! Despite my feast, I’d managed to lose just under 2st.
‘You’re ready,’ the surgeon said as I was wheeled into theatre.
Waking up hours later, I heard the monotonous beeping of the hospital ward.
A drip snaked from a machine into my arm.
‘The op was a success,’ the surgeon smiled.
After two days, I was discharged.
The last time I’d been home, I’d gorged on greasy fried chicken.
Now I could only sip water.
And my hunger had evaporated.
After a week,
I slowly reintroduced diet drinks and teas. I started to feel stronger. Soon, I was enjoying tiny meals. The portions I ate before my gastric sleeve had been quadruple the size! Gradually, the weight fell off. Four months after surgery, I’d lost 5st 5lb.
And it continued to plummet. ‘Why are you still wearing that T-shirt?’ one of the centre’s residents asked me one day. I looked down at the size-28 T-shirt I’d always squeezed into.
Now it drowned me!
But it was still hiding a secret...
While I was exhilarated with the weight loss, it’d left me with ugly layers of excess skin. Drooping down my body like a melting candle, the skin would smell and become infected. I was still wearing large clothing so I could tuck it all in. ‘I want to wear dresses and show off my weight loss,’ I moaned to Mum.
By the beginning of last year, I’d saved enough money for more surgery.
This time, it was a tummy tuck.
In April last year, I had 3kg (about half a stone) of excess skin removed from my stomach and thighs. It cost all my savings, but it was worth every penny. ‘We can’t believe it’s you!’ residents cried. And for the first time in my life, men would look at me in the street. I lapped up every stare and wink. I actually felt sexy for the first time ever!
Now, I’ve just had a boob job, and I’ve met someone I adore. I’m a size-10 and weigh 9st 2lb. For a decade I wore the same outfit, now I’m a shopping addict.
Sometimes I wish I’d done it sooner.
I spent so long being miserable.
But after being given a death sentence, I’ve sailed past my 40th birthday.
My friends threw me a surprise party.
Some of them hadn’t seen me since the weight loss and they didn’t even recognise me!
Now, after everything I’ve been through, I’m making every day count.