“How on earth did you get so fat?” This is the question people wish they dared ask me, as though there are ‘bad fatties’ who are greedy and lazy, and ‘good fatties’, who have a medical excuse. I don't think it should matter which I am, any more than it should matter how someone came to be in a wheelchair or lose their sight. I won’t play that game.
The truth is, my weight only started to affect me when I began tipping the scales at 26 stone, in 2006. The last stone made things hard. I'd been 25 stone for most of my adult life, and things had been going brilliantly - wonderful friends, fabulous partner, and happiness. Sure, I had to look for chairs without arms and allow extra time for walking from A to B, but I regarded these as small accommodations. I refused to take the advice of one bigot to “go into your house and not come out until you're thin.”
Things changed when my health hit rock bottom and my repetitive strain injury got so bad I could no longer use a computer, meaning I had to give up my job as a consultant. Before, it hadn't mattered that I was fat and slow because I had value in other ways. Now that value was gone.
Desperate to regain control of my body, I asked my doctor about weight loss surgery. The NHS was dying to staple my stomach, but I hesitated: if was too dangerous to give someone as fat as me a general anaesthetic for anything else, why was it suddenly okay for this? And if weight loss surgery is so great, why isn't everyone doing it?
I asked my doctor if there was anyone who had lost huge amounts of weight through diet and exercise. They knew one person - so it was possible.
A strong believer in the laws of physics, I knew that there must be a point at which I could lose fat by burning more calories than I consumed, so I threw everything I had into a last ditch attempt at avoiding surgery. I gave up on wishing I was thin. I threw out all my ridiculous ideas about what I should look like in order to qualify for my ‘worthy human’ card. Instead, I started treating my body as my friend instead of my enemy, and found a personal trainer who introduced me to weightlifting and boxing fitness. I became strong and flexible. I lost 100lb. I felt amazing.
Then I got pregnant. Suddenly, what I had achieved – going from zero to a hundred in terms of my fitness - was invisible. All the health professionals saw was fat, and I was a big, fat problem. The NHS stuck a WARNING sticker on my file and my forehead.
They wanted me to have blood thinners, “lifestyle advice” and a special glucose tolerance test (GTT). I was allergic to the blood thinners, turned down the lifestyle advice and my GTT results were so amazing that someone actually wrote “good results” in biro on the copy they sent me. The evidence of my excellent health was right there in front of them, but no one wanted to see it - I may as well have been invisible, or inside a box with a descriptive label: “Danger: Pregnant 37-year-old female, BMI >40. Treat with caution. Assume diabetes, ignorance and/or stupidity.”
There was no point in getting angry; armed with their statistics and conclusions, the doctors had no time or mental space for questioning the received wisdom that obstetrics runs upon. In the end, I was lucky enough to find an independent midwife who judged situations on what was best for me, not by statistics that grouped together every fat person regardless of their state of health.
I had a caesarean section, and now I am confined to barracks, barred from lifting anything heavier than my baby. My Olympic bar and 100kg of weights remain behind the sofa and my hard-won muscle is turning to fat day by day. I didn't realise how much I loved being fit and healthy until it was taken away from me. I didn't realise how great my fitness was until I lost most of it. Now, I'm barely able to move off the sofa.
People keep telling me I'm doing really well, that I'll bounce back to my former level of fitness, but I just don't have the time and money to throw at it like I did before.
I'm now in limbo, waiting for my body to heal and my baby to grow. It's unlikely I will ever again be quite as fit as I was, and I'm certain I'll never be thin. My fitness brought me my health, but it also brought me freedom – and that's what I miss the most.