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I've lost my boyfriend twice!

But I couldn't be more happy about it...


Published by: Jean Jollands and Joe Mellor
Published on: 27 September 2012

So, I was no Olivia Newton John, but I was determined to give it my absolute best shot! Me and my boyfriend Mike, 37, were belting out a number from Grease at a local karaoke joint.
‘You're the one that I want,' we warbled, all eyes on us. ‘Oooh, oooh, ooh... honey!'
‘That was brilliant,' I giggled, as we headed off to the bar.
All of a sudden, I spotted a group of girls sniggering at us.
‘Look at those two!' one hissed. ‘Little 'n' large!'
cackled another.
I hung my head in shame. To other people, me and Mike were the odd couple.
At 5ft 9in, I towered over his tiny 5ft 2in frame. In fact, he only came up to my shoulders! And the weight difference between us was even more jaw-dropping.
While I was a whopping 33st, Mike was just over 7½st. I was literally four times the size of him.
On top of that, Mike had been born with a bone missing in each arm, making them half the length they should be, so you could see how we attracted the wrong sort of attention from other people.
‘I'm not having this,' Mike snapped, marching over to them.
‘If you must laugh, then at least laugh at me!' he spat at
the girls. ‘I'm the one with the little arms after all!'
Red-faced and ashamed, they fell into a stunned hush and went back to their drinks.
‘My hero,' I winked, as Mike walked back a bit flustered.
‘Well, I won't let anyone spoil your night,' he soothed.
But, it was hard to ignore.
I'd spent half my life having people yell ‘fat pig' at me.
Now I had a pint-sized partner, I must have looked bigger than ever!
I'd always been a chubby kid, but my weight had rocketed in my twenties.
I'd left school with no confidence and instead of finding a job, I'd volunteered at charity shops and distracted myself from failure with food.
Takeaways, buttery baguettes, pie 'n' chips... you name it, I'd wolf it down.
By the time I was 30, I'd weighed 30st.
The following year, my beloved mum, Celia, 57, was diagnosed with terminal womb cancer. ‘I just want you to be healthy, sweetheart,' she begged, but when she passed away a few months later, I sought comfort in food again.
By the time I met Mike, I was hiding my 56DD boobs under size 32 tops.
But now, as we walked away from those horrible girls in the bar, I felt safe and content.
So what if the size difference made us look like Big Bertha and Mr Muscle? We were happy, that's what mattered. A few nights later, we snuggled into bed together for the first time.
I'd played hard to get for the first few months, afraid of what Mike would make of my flab.
‘You know I think you're gorgeous,' he'd gushed, trying to get his arms around me, but I couldn't shake the feeling
he was more afraid of being crushed!
After 10 minutes of awkward fumbling under
the bedclothes, I decided to finally let go of my inhibitions and stop worrying about every little thing.
‘If this is going to work, we're going to need some improvisation,' I'd grinned. ‘It's not like it'd be much fun with me on top after all!'
‘It's always fun with you, love,' Mike smiled, and, as I reached out to switch off the light, he'd grabbed my hand.
‘No - I want to see you,' he'd winked, and
I felt so beautiful then, so special.
No one had ever made me feel like that before...
My previous boyfriend had been so ashamed of my size. In the two years we were together, he'd only ever taken me out on one date!
But around Mike, I didn't feel self-conscious about my size. In fact, I soon started to see the joke! ‘You make a great wind-breaker,' Mike chuckled one day as we sheltered from a storm by a bus stop.
‘Cheeky!' I'd gasped, giving him a wry smile. ‘You'd better get on your tiptoes so I can give you a kiss!'
Well, if we didn't laugh, someone else would!
But while we were happy, my body definitely wasn't. A year later, I'd moved into Mike's third floor flat.
‘These stairs are a nightmare,' I puffed one day, struggling to carry the shopping up.
And later, when I registered with a new GP, I got some bad news.
‘You're borderline diabetic,' he said.
I was shocked, but not surprised. I was obese, there was no denying it.
‘I've got to shift this weight,' I sobbed to Mike
back at home.
So I'd signed up to a weight management clinic and started
to watch what I ate.
Two years on, I'd lost a whopping 9st and could squeeze into a size 22!
‘You look fab, love,' my dad Mick, 63, grinned. ‘Your mum would have been proud...'
Weeks later, I got another boost from my GP. ‘You've done so well, we're going to give you a bit of extra help,' he said.
The surgery had recommended me for a gastric sleeve op. Soon,
I was having a consultation at a local clinic.
‘We'll have to remove most of your stomach,' the consultant said. ‘That will leave only a small space for food.'
Of course, there were risks. ‘Because of my size, there's a chance I might not wake up,' I admitted to Mike.
‘I just want you to be happy,' he'd said.
So, in August last year, I had the operation.
I was only allowed liquids for four weeks, then all my food had to be mashed up, like baby food.
I longed to wolf down a bag of crisps or gulp some fizzy drink, but I knew if I did, I'd feel awful. Plus, Mike was always there by my side to encourage me and keep me going.
‘I got you your own special little plate,' he grinned, mashing up my favourite fish fingers.
When my tiny boyfriend handed me the tiny portion of food on a tiny plate, it didn't look that small at all!
Soon, I was losing half a stone a month! A year on, I weigh 17st, and am comfortably wearing size 18 clothes.
‘I'm half the woman I used to be,' I grinned at Mike one night as we walked hand in hand.
‘I've actually lost the equivalent of two of you!' We couldn't stop giggling.
We may look like the odd couple from the outside, but really, we've always been the perfect match.
Melanie Morgan, 36, Edgbaston, Birmingham