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Too fat to care!

I had to decide - was it biscuits, or my daughter?


Published by: Laura Hinton
Published on: 15th November 2010

Drops of warm water trickled from the showerhead on to the backs of my arms as I worked the shampoo through my daughter’s blonde locks.
Although she was 20, Megan couldn’t manage this herself. She suffered from a rare muscle-weakening disorder called arthrogryposis, and couldn’t bend any of her joints properly.
‘Is that too hot for you?’ I asked, blowing a strand of hair away from my clammy face.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Megan smiled.
Thank goodness she was fine – because I certainly wasn’t. I could barely breathe…
‘Just let me catch my breath,’ I puffed, wriggling out from between the shower and her wheelchair – no easy feat when you’re a size 32.
Waddling into the bedroom, I collapsed in a heap on the nearest chair, trying to get my pounding heart to return to a normal rhythm.
Megan had suffered from her condition since birth. I loved her more than life itself, and had never resented having to be her full-time carer. The only problem was that I was beginning to struggle with the physical side of caring.
Once upon a time, I’d have got her in and out of the shower in 15 minutes – now it took me nearly an hour with all my breaks.
The slightest thing left me out of puff. At 22st, it was difficult to get myself around, let alone someone else as well.
Still, I managed to pull myself together and get Megan out of the shower. Within minutes, we were ready for a trip into town. I pulled my coat around me, tried to do it up, then gave in with a shrug. Well, I hadn’t been able to close it properly for months now.
With a deep breath, I threw my weight behind the wheelchair and pushed her out of the door. It felt like I was walking through treacle.
‘You okay, Mum?’ checked Megan, anxiously.
‘Oooh, fine,’ I lied, as my back began to twinge. Come to think of it, my knees didn’t feel too great either.
Still, I pushed on and we managed to reach the special day school where Megan went every day for a few hours for a bit of a break.
After dropping her off, I got the bus home and was soon collapsing on the settee, exhausted.
My tummy rumbled.
With all the rushing around getting Megan out, there’d been no time for breakfast for me.
I didn’t often get time for proper food, often grabbed things on the hoof. Sweet, fatty things…
I could murder a packet of crisps.
So, in between dusting, vacuuming, and washing up, I scoffed a packet of McCoy’s. In fact, they were so yummy I had another two or three packets.
‘And for pud, I’ll treat myself to a couple of biscuits,’ I muttered.
Within minutes, the whole packet had gone.
Looking at the clock, I gasped. I’d missed lunch. So I rustled up a super-quick fry up because any minute I’d have to rush out to collect Megan.
Three eggs, four sausages and some bacon got thrown in, along with five slices of bread.
I couldn’t help thinking about all the fun lunches I’d had when I worked in Huyton, Liverpool, as a sales ledger.
But I’d quit when I’d had Megan, and had lost touch with everyone since.
Although I loved looking after my girl, sometimes I found being a carer could be a very lonely, isolating existance, and I often found comfort in food.
That afternoon, after I’d collected Megan, I cooked her grilled chicken and veg.
‘Darn, I don’t have enough potatoes for everyone,’ I tutted. ‘Oh well, I’ll bung something in the microwave later for me.’
So while Megan and my husband Eric, 54, ate a healthy meal, I gobbled down a creamy chicken curry and naan bread. ‘Is it okay if I go to bed now, Mum?’ she asked.
Pushing her wheelchair into position, I started to lift Megan into her bed. Suddenly, something went ping in my back.
‘Argh!’ I gasped.
‘Mum, what is it?’ she asked. Her pretty face was scrunched up with worry, but I quickly hid my pain.
I pushed Megan with all my might.
My hands shook, and my legs were about to buckle.
‘Eric,’ I yelled.
Seconds later, he took control.
‘You shouldn’t do so much,’ he scolded gently afterwards. ‘I don’t mind helping.’
‘I used to be able to,’ I said. ‘Why am I struggling so much?’
But I already knew the answer. It was my weight. ‘If I don’t sort myself out, I won’t be able to care for Megan any more,’ I realised.
‘I’m 22st – if I don’t slim down, I’m heading for a heart attack,’ I told Eric. ‘I want to be here for you and Megan.’
I searched online for a diet plan – and found one with Tesco.
So, following the strict diet, I cooked healthy and balanced meals for the whole family every night.
I still enjoyed everything, but in moderation. After all, Tesco’s saying is ‘every little helps’!
Whenever the going got tough and I was tempted by crisps or snacks, I’d just remember why I was doing this. For my Megan.
Before I knew it, 18 months had passed and I’d lost 12st, dropping from a dress size 32 to 12!
Now I have a whole new lease of life.
‘I’ll take Megan to the bus stop this morning,’ I shouted down the stairs to Eric last week.
‘I enjoy it now!’ I giggled, whizzing Megan out of the door.
‘Mum, will you please slow down?’ she laughed. I never feel out of breath now, and am brimming full of energy and life. But best of all, I know I can really be there for my daughter.
• Visit www.tescodiets.com
Colette Smith, 49, Liverpool