Powerless, out of breath and my cheeks burning with embarrassment, I watched my colleagues lift a poorly, stricken lady into a wheelchair and whisk her inside the emergency room. ‘You couldn’t help her,’ I chastised myself, following behind as shame bubbled under my size XL scrubs. I’d been a nurse 10 years and loved working in the busy A&E at University Hospital Ayr, but that day, in the summer of 2014, I’d never felt so guilty or low, because, at 46, my weight was so out of control I hadn’t been able to help a patient in need.
Food was a huge part of my life, and even growing up we regularly ate greasy takeaways or could be found baking. Over the years, despite the busy shifts and having a young family, I struggled with my weight, and by the time I had my third child in 1999, it’d really crept up.
I tried to shift it. I’d join my local WW group and lose a few stone, but then I’d stop going, convinced I could carry on alone, only I’d pile it back on.
Then, in 2003 – when my kids were three, 14 and 16 – I became a single mum. Between supporting my kids and the shifts, I didn’t have time to consider my health. I’d make sure they were eating healthily, but my own diet was lacking. For breakfast I’d have an energy drink and a bacon roll from the canteen, then lunch would be full of carbs and fat. After a 12-hour shift, I’d be too exhausted to cook so I’d grab a takeaway.
By 2014, I was struggling to fit into my XL uniform, and at 5ft 4in didn’t carry the weight well, either. ‘I’m such a hypocrite,’ I’d think whenever I hadto encourage a patient to lose weight. I’d sit there advising them to eat more healthily when I was fatter than they were.
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Denne historien er fra July 20, 2020-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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