It hurt to breathe and I was sweating all over.
“It’s just a cold. Stay in bed. You’ll be alright tomorrow if you rest.”
Leigh’s cold symptoms only ever last about seven minutes so he didn’t have much sympathy. No man flu for him.
He tucked me in, handed me the remote and a mug of tea, kissed me on the head and crept out. He was taking the girls to a birthday party. I was supposed to sleep.
“I think I’m dying, God,” I said aloud.
“God, you paying attention? I think this might be the end.”
My chest rattled and my eyes leaked. The glare from the television hurt to look at.
I decided it just wasn’t right. I googled the number for the doctor and made an appointment. Miraculously, they could see me straight away…
“Yes, you have tonsillitis and pneumonia. Let’s get you started on some antibiotics.”
The doctor was a young man in slender fitting pin striped pants. His beard was immaculately man-scaped and his crisp purple shirt was neatly tucked.
Huh! I could actually have died. People die of pneumonia, right? I was looking forward to texting Leigh as soon as I got back to the car.
My head pounded as he typed up the script.
I stared blankly at the wall, too tired to make conversation.
“Now, Yvette. Let’s talk about your weight,” said the GP I’d never previously met.
“Hey?” I said.
I glanced down at my crumpled K-mart jumper, tracky pants and ugg boots. I definitely wasn’t looking my best- but who does WHEN THEY HAVE PNEUMONIA.
“Do you know how much you weigh now?” he asked.
“Err, yeh. I’m a little heavier than I like to be. It would be good to lose a few kilos.”
He agreed and asked me to stand on the scales. He told me I was an ideal candidate for gastric banding. He explained that I was healthy and not so overweight that it would cause complications. I half listened as he explained the procedure and recovery time. He said, “have this surgery and you will never have to go on a diet again!”
He typed out a referral, printed it out and smiled as he handed it over.
I took the letter, smiled weakly and left his office.
p.s I secretly think my body is fabulous. 😀
p.p.s As is my practice, I asked myself, what do you hope to achieve by posting this, Yvette? I decided that I hope to achieve nothing. I just like writing stuff down. I pondered the fact that I had nothing nice or encouraging to say in this post but in the end, I went with Anne Lamott’s advice; “remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours, and you get to tell it. If people wanted you to write more warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”