This is why I need to do it the hard weigh.

I’m no stranger to being sick. Gone off food? I’ve eaten it. Over indulged in Alcohol, I’ve done it. Forgot to wash my hands and then licked them, probably, who knows? Anyway, I’ve been sick a lot and that’s fact. No one can prove otherwise and anyone who could, would tell you that the only way they’d say I hadn’t chucked up more than a mother bird feeding her young would be if I’d told them to say I hadn’t, and I haven’t. So as you can see, I am the mother bird of the human world. You name it: I’ve chucked it. I even used to make myself sick sometimes. Not in a bulimic way, but when I was hung over and unsure how to feel better, I used the poorly thought out strategy: exorcising the demon. Getting the evil from within out and down that pan, pavement or car foot well. It didn’t work, but it didn’t stop me trying. No one can call me a quitter, that’s for sure. I think you get my point.

 Anyway, the reason I tell you this is that I thought I’d experienced vomiting at it’s very worse. I never knew that you could throw up so much that you got black eyes of that all of your muscles on both sides could rip. Well, I don’t know if they actually ripped, I’m not a doctor, but they bloody well hurt, make no mistake. As It turns out I hadn’t experienced half the pain that a pretty basic human function could bring. Until last November anyway.  Which is when I had a gastric balloon fitted. Is it fitted? I’m not a car, maybe inserted is a better word. Inserted through my mouth, not up the arse which seems to associate it’s self with the word ‘insert’. Anyway, I had it put inside me (sounds worse) in The Czech Republic. On my own. Without knowing a word of the language. Well, I do know a word, although as I found out ‘Nice’ – Hesky – if you’re interested, isn’t a part of the lingo needed in the situation I was in.

  Actually, getting a fairly small blob of rubber put in wasn’t something that I remember too much about. I has a mask pumping Lord only knows what into me, and on top of that I was injected with something most addicts would rob their grandmother for.  All I remember coming round gagging as they pulled out the garden cane they’d used to prod it down with. It wasn’t an actual garden cane. Czech people aren’t monsters, it felt like one though.

I must have been still out of it for ages after as looking back over my phone, in the first eight hours after it was put in I was telling people via text what a great time I was having.

 It was that evening and night time that the real sickness started. It was like a wave. At first, it was just some light reaching. No problem, I thought. I’ve dealt with that, I can cope. Then within half an hour all the water I’d been sipping all day had come out of my nose. By force. The nurses were on hand, ready to point to the  bit of the information pamphlet, written in both languages, that said everything was normal and this happened to almost everyone. That was the first of four stomach emptying vomit marathons in the next hour. After that it was just the small sips of water that came up every time I took one. It’s strange when you’re sick, you know it’s the water making you sick but there is some sort of blocker on our brains that forgets this when the primal instinct for water kicks in, only when I swallowed would I realise what a shit Idea I’d had. It’s like being on auto pilot. I think I kinda understand lemmings more now after this experience, those poor little bastards don’t think through what they’re doing either they just want to carry on following their mates. I bet in the air they realise and just think ‘shit.’ – that’s what I did as I violently threw back up the few drops I’d just swallowed.

 The sickness carried on, as did the pointing at the info graph.

 ‘Normal’ kept coming the response in broken English. I was put on IV fluids, or what I think were IV fluids. I know they weren’t anything good to take me back the great times of that morning. In fact I think the fluid still ended up in my stomach as I somehow found something that wasn’t yellow to throw up. I was more or less constantly being sick.

 The first night of what was supposed to be the rest of my life turned into the worst night I can remember in a long time. Before, the worst nights I’ve had were when I used to smoke a lot of weed and drink all weekend, stopping on Sunday lunchtime. I’d struggle to sleep and, being unemployable, other than with agencies Monday’s always meant a new employer, which added to the anxiety. I’d really struggle to drop off, not knowing that I was putting my body through alcohol withdrawal and convincing myself the sickness was just a hangover. I’d suffer from a terrible feeling of impeding doom at this time, along with restless legs. Deciding to go for a walk, I’d get up, feel the cold of the unheated flat down my spine, something I can still vividly remember when I think about it, and once dress, had out the flat. I didn’t live in a very good area, in fact it was the ‘front line’ of Northampton, so I was never more than half way up the street before I got spooked and got back to the flat then get scared half way up the road and turn back.

  The next morning after shift change and someone with only slightly better English arrived. I was told that it was more than likely going to stop that day, I think that’s what the nurse said anyway. The hand movements she made definitely meant ‘to be sick’. Either that or she was dancing at a completely inappropriate time. Possibly some kind of dance like Big Fish, Little fish, except in this version they just say ‘normally’ a lot.

 I wondered if I’d ever heard someone use the word ‘normally’ more in a conversation. It was like a tick, a really normal version of turrets’.

 Let me tell you there’s nothing more frustrating than wanting to point out that it’s isn’t normal and getting shirty with someone who wouldn’t understand a word you said anyway, or the apology when you’d calmed down.

 It’s funny how you can get the measure of someone’s intentions by the Google search terms. Murderers: ‘Rope’, ‘body decomposition’ & ‘How to get away with murder’, People who want to get pregnant: ‘what’s the right position’ , ‘How to tell if you’re ovulating and ‘Is there something wrong with me’. Me – I wanted a quick and easy fix to being a fat bastard so my search terms were things like: ‘Success stories, gastric balloon’ , ‘I lost ten stone in a year from a balloon’ and ‘before and after pictures, gastric balloon’. Whereas, you Check the Google searches that I did shortly after the eight hour honeymoon period was up, and they’d changed to things such as ‘Gastric Balloon sickness’, ‘How long does vomiting last after insertion of gastric balloon’ and ‘Gastric balloon failure’ – It’s an interesting insight into how the human mind works, how it can be so blinkered and how we stupid earthlings believe the bloody thing.

  I wanted the balloon to work, maybe if I’m being honest, primarily, so I could binge eat for another year while I thought about it and convinced everyone around me that it was a good idea – So I’d never searched or wanted to see the ‘scare stories’ or as I’ve come to learn ‘the truth’. Which is that a very small per cent of people’s bodies reject the balloon outright. They just won’t have it and will chuck up until it’s gone, which from reading always happens from it being removed, I couldn’t find anyone who had actually chucked up a balloon. I’m in that very small, percentile, a word I won’t use again because it reminds me of penises.

  By the evening of the second day, about 36 hours after I’d arrived filled with the hope of a loner at a disco, I asked to see the doctor, he didn’t come. Instead I got more IV fluid to throw up. I was supposed to be going home the next day. I knew that was going to he happening by this point. Throwing up was almost a regular as breathing. I know there’s a big difference between throwing up and reaching but by the time your eyes are starting to blacken, there really isn’t a distinction in the pain levels. Uncomfortable isn’t the word. Well, not the one I’d use anyway, the endless stream of nurses who all had different favourite English words had started trotting it out this evening when on the phone to whoever it was that didn’t want to leave the comfort of their sofa. It wasn’t just uncomfortable though. It was painful. The muscles down both sides felt like I’d been boxing training with Frank Bruno who’d decided he didn’t like rib cages that day. The afternoon had seen a change in my thinking too. Knew it wasn’t working, that was, of course compounded by the Google searches and seeing the other 1% of particularly vocal failures being extremely graphic about their experiences. No one had mentioned the eyes though. Not only where mine now black on each side (Bloody Frank Bruno again) but the eye balls were now also blood shot.

 I was scared. Scared and having trouble expressing that to the people who didn’t understand me. You’d think that fear looks the same in the eyes of someone who was terrified and in need of some kind of reassurance. Well, I probably does, but not if you look like you’ve just drowned your sorrows after taking a pasting off of Big Frank. I looked like a rabbit (with myxomatosis) in the headlights.  

 It was time to get the big guns out. iTranslate. The app on my phone I’d downloaded just in case. The shitest translating app there is as it turns out. It doesn’t let you type it just translates the words you say to it. When you’re reaching every few breathes it’s a struggle to keep it together enough to put a complete sentence in with added eeeeeeerrrrrrrrrggggggghhhh. Onto the end of it. I did manage just to get ‘Doctor’ translated and just showed that to the nurse as she came back into the room after I’d pressed the buzzer, which is something I did right up until an hour and a half later at 3am when the director of the clinic showed up. This worried me a little. Remember at this point I still wanted it too work, I just wanted the sickness to stop, yes, I’d all but come to the conclusion that it wasn’t going to work, but we’ve already learnt I can’t trust my own brain or thinking.  The Director, a woman of about fifty spoke much better English that the people she paid to look after me and wasn’t as annoyed as I thought whoever it was that was going to show up would be. She agreed to double up the anti Sickness IV drip, which she felt would definitely stop the vomiting and advised that I should try and eat a yogurt. She had a soothing voice and held my hand all the time she was talking to me. It worked and I was suitably soothed.

 Until I ate the yogurt that is. What came up was like a fizzy cream with extra burn. I’m ahead of myself though, she promised to come back and see me the next day, which I was pleasantly surprised to see that she honoured. However by the next day I was growing more than tired of throwing up and it was during this conversation that I noticed I couldn’t hear much out of my right ear. I’d also perforated by ear – not that I found that out until I’d left the hospital.  Mrs Director said that it would defiantly probably be better by the next day. I asked her how many other people’s sickness lasted thirty six hours and it was then she became vague, but promised it sometimes happened to some people that she couldn’t name or recall. I think she knew it was going tits up by then too. Baring in mind I should have been discharged 24 hours before this. She offered me the room for another day.  

Before she left, she again she was confident that I’d be fine soon enough, her body language didn’t even try to match her words though.

 A few hours later, a young lady showed up. It turns out she was the Director’s daughter who’d driven a few hours to come and see me. She spoke better English that her mum and wanted to make me feel better. She was lovely but talking to someone who can’t stop throwing up hoping they’ll feel better is a bit like… offering tea and cake to a group of fatal car crash victims hoping it’ll make their day a bit better. It isn’t getting any takers and won’t fucking work. It was while talking to her I realised that it was probably going to have to come out. I knew the conversation was a exercise in damage limitation – however nice these people was, no one wants to have a failure on their hands weather they’re a doctor, a mechanic or someone who helps fat bastards get thin.

I did say one thing to her though, and that was ‘whatever happens, this will be the weekend that changes things for me.’ I meant it too. Regardless of the balloon staying in or not. Eventually after a goodbye in which neither I nor the Directors daughter knew how to end it, hugging was out: to weird, handshaking seemed appropriate to me but as I held it out, the stunned look she gave me told me it wasn’t, I ended up nodding and saying goodbye in English with a errrrrggggggh on the end for good measure. The sickness hadn’t stopped throughout our conversation. If I had to count I’d say in the thirty short minutes that I was with her I threw up five times.

 That evening was worse than all that came before. The reaching moved to the point where there was no doubt that my body was trying force the balloon out. Fortunately for the nurses I was too ill to keep pressing the button I simply didn’t have the strength for any life and death charades. I think it was 1am when I decided for sure that I was going o get it taken out the next day. If that meant collapsing (the answer to almost everything) and getting taken to a hospital then so be it. Before the morning though I was to discover what it felt like to know you are going to die. Well, seemingly die which is pretty much the same and I’ll arm wrestle anyone who says different.

 It was about an hour after I’d decided to throw the two grand I’d paid into the same place I’d had my head down for the last couple of days. The sickness went into overdrive, the only way I can describe it, is like a small child who has worked themselves into a right old tiz and even after you’ve calmed them down with whatever you have to hand to offer as a bribe, the sobs still come, there isn’t any control in it whatsoever. Even if you can raise a laugh from them they still keep sobbing. It’s not quite a hiccup but, well, I’ve likened it enough by now I’ll stop talking about crying children, this is supposed to be sad enough already. I couldn’t stop hurling up nothing. Not even bile. The only thing my body wanted out was too big to come. I’ve been in accidents before, I’ve had the pain of kidney stones (without knowing it was kidney stones) which is pretty scary but the difference here was I couldn’t just go to the local A&E to get some relief and reassurance. It also dragged on, the uncertainty. I thought that the way my body was rejecting this nasty fucking balloon might force it up just far enough to block my breathing. This thought led to utter panic and terror, I was on the bathroom floor making the noise a horse would make if you drove into it with a transit. So much so that without me even pressing the button the night nurse (not the medicine, it wasn’t a weird hallucination), came in and found me. I must have looked a pretty sorry state, as within a few moments there were some men in white outfits there too, proper medical ones, not the sort twats wear on cruises. After that things moved along fairly quickly, the director was back within half an hour, then at 4am I was taken down, injected, given the gas mask and the next thing I knew I was gagging for the last time as they removed one of the tools that they’d used out.

 It’s a weird feeling: being that ill. It almost felt like I was high on morphine. It was like I wasn’t really there. However, I know that I wasn’t under the influence of anything other than IV fluids and anti sickness. I think it must have been the sleep deprivation. They wanted me to sleep, but all I wanted to do was get out of that place. So I sat and waited, looking at the clock, reading stuff on my phone and pacing. I didn’t want to sleep there. I don’t think I was scared I’d not wake up, but I read once, albeit in one of my Daughter, Lilly’s books that you need to feel safe to sleep and that rang true.

 The day dragged, once I’d spoken to Lucie, my wife, who’d sorted out the return tickets, moving them back two days, all I had to do was wait for the car to come and take me away. I didn’t feel like eating but I did get a full yogurt down me without it coming back, it took a while to eat it, my throat was raw all the way down to my stomach. It did me some good though and I was able to get into the bathroom and shower, after which I assessed the damage. My eyes where fully blood shot all around the pupil, then around my eyes were a mix of purple and yellow. My sides hurt when I breathed, coughing caused me to need a lay down. Lastly, my ear on the right was weird. I later found out it was perforated – which hurt like buggery when the plane took off.

 All in all things were a bit shit really.  I did take one thing away from The Czech clinic for fatties though: I was going to change. I also learnt that there is no easy way out of getting fat, regardless of the shit you’ve read on the internet. This is my story, what’s not worked in the past and what I’ve done to final get to a weight where I’m not embarrassed to be in public. This is the diary of a fat bastard.