Looking down at the stitches snaking across my stomach, I took a deep breath as it dawned on me what I’d just done. A minute later, my husband, Paul, was wheeled onto the hospital ward beside me, and as soon as I saw the beaming smile on his face, I knew that the pain and hard work had been worth it. You see, I’d just saved his life, but in doing so, I’d also saved my own.
I first met Paul when I was 17 and he was 18. After only a few months of dating, we were both surprised to discover I was pregnant. Our son Joshua was born in November 2001, and the three of us moved into Paul’s mum and dad’s house to settle into life as a family, while Paul worked as a builder to support us.
Determined to give us all the home comforts, Paul’s dad, Brian, and mum, Carol, would make us hearty meals and treat us to takeaways. Our second son, James, was born in 2005 and I barely noticed when my baby weight remained months later. I’d been slim before children, but my body was changing. ‘I’ll lose it soon,’ I told Paul, even though he said he loved me no matter what.
Testing times
But losing weight just never happened. Instead, I’d gorge on kebabs and pizzas when Paul came home late from work. Often, it was my second dinner, having eaten earlier with the kids, too.
Three years later, a series of stressful events meant I was comfort eating more than ever. James was diagnosed with ADHD and Paul’s building business fell into administration. We had to declare ourselves bankrupt and I’d never felt so much pressure as a wife and mum. Food became my comfort – for the few minutes it took to scoff a large bar of chocolate, I’d feel slightly better.
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