A couple together through thick and thin
My hubby did everything for me. And I mean everything…
Watching my hubby Ian, scooping up empty foil containers, I felt guilty. ‘It’s all right, love, I’ve got it,’ he smiled to me.
I nodded sheepishly as Ian, then 45, wandered into the kitchen to bin them before doing the washing-up.
My husband was a godsend. Nothing was too much trouble, whether it was the dusting, laundry or tidying our little home.
His kind, loving nature was why I’d fallen for him back in 2009.
We’d married in July 2015 and, exchanging vows, I’d meant every word.
For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
But two and a half years on, Ian was bearing the brunt of those promises.
When he’d married me, I’d been a 5ft 8in, a curvy size-14 and 16st.
Even then, I’d been bigger than skinny
Ian, at 5ft 2in and 10st.
But it didn’t matter, we were a perfect match.
Now, I weighed
30st, was a size 32.
And I’d gained that colossal amount since we’d been married.
It was a cliche, but
I’d really let myself go.
‘Your size doesn’t matter to me,’ Ian promised.
I knew he meant it. But to me, it was devastating, especially as Ian had quickly gone from my husband to my carer.
I was housebound, struggled to walk far, got out of breath going upstairs.
If we did get out, I felt as if everyone was staring.
I knew what an odd couple we looked. Little and large. Fatty and skinny.
And it was all down to my awful diet.
It’d started with a takeaway treat once a week, then two, three. Eventually, we were ordering in every night. Chinese or curry were our favourites. Then there was the chippy, where we’d have fried cod and sausages dripping in batter with a pile of thick-cut chips. Despite that, Ian stayed as thin as ever! ‘Where do you put it?!’ I gasped that night as he climbed into bed, his lean frame lost next to mine. ‘Must have a high metabolism,’ he chuckled. Although he must have burnt loads of calories running around after me. The next morning, Ian helped me out of bed and made me breakfast – stacks of toast slathered in butter.
Then he helped me upstairs to shower. I didn’t dare use the bath any more, too fearful of getting stuck.
Showering was my last act of independence.
But then I realised that now I couldn’t reach some parts of my body. I could wash my arms and stomach, but not my legs, feet and back. My heart sank as I called out to Ian.
‘I need you to help me,’ I muttered, embarrassed.
Ian made small talk as he washed me. But I felt nothing but shame.
I was just 34, how had
I let this happen to me? At this rate, I won’t hit 40, I thought. My weight was crippling me – literally…
I couldn’t reach to wash my legs, feet, back…