I'm starving through guilt!
Fiona's weight had never bothered her before..
Monday 12th January 2009
The two images couldn't have been more different. Me, stomach rumbling like a train as my 25st body hurtled towards the bread bin, my mouth watering as I slathered on a layer of butter, followed by ham and tomato. Then there was my husband of five months, Joe, 50, lying in a bed at The Queen Margaret Hospital, in Dunfermline, Fife, his arms and legs shaking with cold. He'd been admitted six days earlier with a chest infection, but thanks to steroids, he seemed to be on the mend. Until this morning.
'I'm seeing things,' he'd whispered. 'People coming after me.'
I'd had a word with the nurse.
'Don't worry,' she'd said. 'He'll be home tomorrow.'
Talk about relieved.
It was only then that I realised
I'd been at the hospital for 12 hours with nothing more than a couple of digestives to keep me going. Normally, I loved my food. At 5ft 1in and a size 30, you could tell. But Joe loved me the way I was, so I'd never let my size bother me. Exhausted and starving, I'd decided to pop home to get something to eat.
'Can't you stay the night?' Joe had begged me.
'I need a bite to eat,' I'd told him, kissing him goodbye.
I'd spent the whole taxi journey home picturing the sandwich. And now, it tasted every bit as good as I'd imagined.
But a few hours later, I got a phone call that changed everything.
'We're putting your husband on a life-support machine,' a voice said.
'No,' I gasped, grabbing my things.
It was too late. At the hospital, a doctor took me into a side room.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'The chest infection had turned into bronchial pneumonia. It's just the machine keeping him alive now.'
I sat by Joe's bedside, willing him to wake up. But he'd suffered a blood clot and, at 12:05pm, they switched off the machine and I kissed him goodbye. Joe was gone.
When I got home, the remote control was on the arm of the settee where Joe had left it, his DVDs stacked up as always. Then there was me, surrounded by wedding photos and guilt. And boy, did I feel guilty. Joe had loved me regardless of my size. Since we'd married
in 2006, he'd insisted I was beautiful. And how had I repaid him? By not being there for him. By stuffing my face as he took his last breath. Life seemed pointless. I felt so guilty, I couldn't bring myself to eat.
Then, six months after Joe died, my sister, Julie, 25, came round.
'Your clothes are hanging off you,' she gasped. 'Please start eating.'
'I'm fine,' I snapped. 'I'll grab something before bed.'
Only I didn't. When I got changed for bed that night, I realised that she was right. My size 30 clothes were way too big. But I didn't run to the scales. For the first time ever, I didn't give a damn what I weighed. Until nine months later, when I went to see my GP.
'I think you have an eating disorder,' she said, as the dial on the scales stopped at 17st.
'As if,' I snorted.
But then I realised something. I was losing weight. And I was getting a buzz out of it.
So I started to set myself targets.
'I'll get down to a size 18,' I vowed. 'Treat myself to an outfit.'
With every size I dropped, I had an excuse to buy new clothes. Soon, I was shopping in Primark and Topshop nearly every day. I'd been signed off work as a child welfare officer with depression, and my sick pay didn't even nearly cover the cost. Soon, I'd maxed out my credit cards and tried not to think about how much I was spending. That's pretty much how things went on until June last year, when I discovered I'd clocked up £40,000.
It was time to take drastic action. I cut up my credit cards, sold the house, and vowed to keep my shopping under control. I'm a size 12 and weigh just under 11st now, but I'd love to be a size zero. I survive on a bit of toast and fruit all day, and I relish the hunger pangs.It's a reminder I'm getting thinner. The logical part of me knows if I'd been with Joe that night, if I'd been holding his hand rather than stuffing my face, nothing would have changed. But another part can't help but think that if I had been there, a miracle could have happened. And that's why I feel like I can't start eating normally. The woman in my wedding photos is a different person. She's fat. Huge. But she's happy. I'm certainly not happy now.
On the outside, I look great. But the guilt and the grief eat away at me. So this year, I know I have to do something to change. I'll get the help I need to stop blaming myself. To say: 'Sorry Joe,' one last time. Then I'll move on with my life.