Debbie’s HUGE Confession
I swapped fat for fitness to walk down the aisle...
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