Friday 15th February 2008

Friday 15th February 2008.

We had a terrible night last night.

I'm going to have to give a bit of background here, apologies to anybody who already knows all this. Some years ago I had a heart attack. While on the waiting list to have my leaky valve sorted I was inactive through fainting anything up to ten times a day (and being a miserable, lazy sod). I became obese. It was decided that when I had my heart done, I'd have my stomach removed at the same time. I've never looked back since but it makes for difficult eating.

I didn't have a stomach stapling, I literally had all but a small pouch removed. Over the last couple of years that's stretched again, so I can eat a fair amount but I have to be careful and eat very slowly.

My next problem is that I am morbidly emetaphobic, I am absolutely terrified of vomit and vomiting. Obviously since having my gastric removal vomit has become a daily concern to me. Most people having the same surgery as me will vomit several times a day in the early stages of recuperation easing out as they learn to control their new regieme to occasional vomiting if they accidentally over indulge.

I can honestly say that in the four years since my op I've puked less than a dozen times. I feel sick after eating on average about fifteen times a week. Sometimes I get as far as pacing (this sometimes helps) and cleaning the toilet in case I do vomit (Another hang up of mine is that I have to clean the toilet first) ... but I almost never actually get as far as throwing up.

Almost.

Backdate over.

We got to the restaurant and were shown to our seats. I was presented with a rose and a glass of cheap bubbly was poured whether we wanted it or not. Foul stuff, I had one sip and donated mine to the Russtonian benevolent fund.

The restaurant was lovely, the music was absolutely fantastic, they had a girl and boy duo strumming guitars and singing love songs... her voice was astounding. I'd have been quite happy sitting on one of the comfy sofas that I spied and just listening to the music. The tables were nicely set, the food was lovely and beautifully presented.

I was tired but determined to have a good time, our starters came and I ordered a double vodka each for us. Russ had the melon in port and I had prawn cocktail... without the prawns because I don't eat sea-food.

My proven method of eating is to have three small mouthfuls and then wait five minutes before I can have two more. I then wait five minutes in the middle of every four mouthfuls. I eat all of my meals this way, I haven't eaten a hot meal in five years but I don't mind because that combined operation gace me my life back. The only time it does become an issue is when we eat out. It's always a disaster.

I'd been looking forward to it all day, even though I never do well if we go out for a meal. I had three mouthfuls of my salad and sauce by which time Russ had finished his starter. I laid my knife and fork down, contemplated a sip of my vodka but decided to wait awhile because I can't mix eating and drinking. Fluid takes up room in my stomach that I can either use for food or drink and when we're eating out I prefer to get what food down that I can. So I sat listening to a fascinating account of why Russ's dad was peeing brown fluid, it's down to a kidney infection apparently, which I did tell Russ to tell him last week.

I saw the waiter homing in on our plates and had two choices. I could either sit there and let my stater be taken away never to be seen again or I could pick up my knife and fork and continue eating. Any normal person would take the third option not open to me and just tell the bloody waiter that they hadn't finished ... but that's a whole other hang up. Before my op, I couldn't eat in public at all. I've had eating disorders all my life. Now I can eat anywhere but for some reason if somebody asks me if I've finished with my plate I have to say yes. I find it physically impossible to say no. All I have to do is say, “Could you just give me another few minutes please,” how hard is that? I can't tell you how many plates of food I've had taken awayfrom me over the last five years.

Anyway, waiter came swooping in. I picked up knife and fork and ate another mouthful of salad. I put my fork down. The waiter retreated and went back to the bar. A minute later he circled again, I picked up cutlery and ate another mouthful of salad. From then on he was like a bloody circling shark. I hate that. The restaurant wasn't busy why couldn't he just leave me alone to eat my fucking meal in peace.

After two revolutions of our table and two more bites of salad I gave up and let him take my plate.

The main course arrived two minutes later. Apart from the circling shark the service was fantastic. Russ and I both had Steak Dianne. I cut off one tiny bite's worth from my meat just to be able to say that I'd tasted it and gave the rest straight to Russ so that he could eat it hot. I have him all of my new potatoes and all of my veg except two pieces of carrot. That left me with the gorgeous dianne sauce and a few Provençal potatoes. I figured that if I took it slowly I'd manage that, especially if I left my tiny piece of steak until last.

Russ eats quickly, we're like a bastardised version of Jack Sprat and his wife. I eat like a sparrow and look like an ox and Russ eats like a pig (sorry if you ever read this hun, but you do) and looks like a rake. Anyway two minutes after getting his food he'd eaten both his and mine. I had put my cutlery down and the waiter swooped again. I was just beginning to feel the first effects of eating too much salad too quickly. I had literally eaten one forkful of fried potatoes with a bit of sauce and I lost my temper and waved my plate away when he came over. As it happens the damage was already done and I wouldn't have been able to eat any more anyway.

The one fork of food that I had was absolutely gorgeous. I wish I could have been left in peace to eat more of it. Russ says that I should explain my condition to people when we book, that way all this could be avoided, but why should I go out and have to be made to feel a freak? It would just be nice to be able to eat a meal slowly and not have over-zealous waiters trying to nick your plate every two seconds. I understand perfectly that if they are busy and need the table, some silly old cow taking two hours per course isn't going to be appreciated .. but the place was half empty. I was always taught that if you haven't finished eating you leave your knife and fork apart, placing them together at the end of the meal indicates that the plate is finished with. It's not fucking rocket science, aren't kids taught that when they learn basic manners these days?

The inevitable happened and I began to feel sick. Two minutes later I felt very sick. I was siting in a straight backed wooden chair. I felt hot and uncomfortable and so, so sick.

Russ told me to go for a walk. This usually helps. I only had on a thin top. It was freezing outside, tembling made me feel even worse. I walked for about ten minutes and although I still felt bad I felt better than I had. I didn't want to go back in there but I was paying so I had to. God love him, Russ had held off having dessert to see if I wanted some. I told him that I didn't want any.

“But we're paying for a three course meal.”

“Russ I feel sick.”

“Oh well, I'll have yours then.”

So we ordered two tirimissu and Russ ate both.

Before his cake had even come I had to leave again. I couldn't sit on that chair a second longer. I felt so ill. Poor Russ had to sit eating by himself while I left for a second time.. knowing that I still had to return to pay.

I started walking up the street and knew that I was going to vomit. A man came out of the pub across the road and came over to me.

“Hiya sexy where are you going?”

I went to walk past him.

“Aren't you speaking?”

“I'm going to vomit.” I snarled at him. I felt that was all the foreplay I needed to contribute before our brief affair came to an end. I was right. I lurched by without looking at him.

The thought of being sick in a public toilet was intolerable. Puking is something to be done furtively and in private, it's not something you sell tickets for and perform...and anyway, I couldn't exactly march up to a bar and demand cleaning products to clean their loo before vomiting into it and then walking out again.

I began to panic, what was I going to do? I was at the 'water in the mouth' stage. I couldn't swallow it, I certainly couldn't spit in the street, two seconds later I was having a full blown vomit panic attack. I ran back down the street. I'd already passed my shop, that would offer sanctuary. I had already thought of that earlier but my shop is CCTV protected and I had no business being there at nine o'clock at night. It could cause awkward questions. That was then ...this was now and I didn't give a shit. I had to find somewhere to puke and fast.

I ran in only stopping long enough to close the door. I didn't reset the alarm and knew that I had sixty seconds grace before it alerted the entire street and rang through to the police station. This was a bloody nightmare and I was growing ever conscious of Russ sitting by himself in the restaurant.

I won't go into technicolour details, let's just say I did what I had to do and for what came up it really wasn't worth all the hassle. It was awful, I was puking and having a panic attack about it all at the same time. While I was brining up the contents of my stomach the alarm was ringing out loud and proud, and Russ was still sitting by himself.

Afterwards, when the adrenaline rush from the panic attack had abated, my blood sugar plummeted and I felt enervated. I just wanted to sink to the floor and go to sleep. I tried to re-set the alarm but was shaking so hard that I punched the wrong buttons and still the sodding thing kept ringing. The door opened. I expected the police, or gawpers chancing their luck .. but it was Russ, carying my rose and my handbag and looking concerned and pissed off with me, all at the same time. The man can multi-task.

“I didn't know what to do, so I used your card and paid the bill. I told them to take two quid for themselves. You'd only go mad with me if I didn't.” I was so grateful to him. Thank God he knows my pin number, I'd have hated going back in there.

So the night cost me sixty four pounds for one sip of champagne, five forkfuls of salad and one fork of fried potato with Diane sauce.

We went to the Guantlet. Suddenly I had the most awful thought. What if the bloke in the street hadn't been some leery piss head. What if it was somebody I know. The 'hiya Sexy' might not have been a pathetic pick up line .. but a jokey hiya. I played back the “You not talking to me?” the tone of voice had sounded offended. I didn't look at the man. He was medium height with a black wolly hat on. I have no idea who it was. I have an awful lot of aquatintences and friends who might address me like that (believe me, I'm far from sexy) in a jokey manner. I'd hate to treat any one of them like that.

I said hello to Danny warily. He did seem to be a bit off with me. It might have been him. It might have been anybody, time will tell. On the other hand my first assumption might be right, somebody coming out of the pub high on ale and wanting a shag. Anybody would do, I just happened to be the first woman walking alone that he saw.

Russ got himself a drink, I couldn't face one. Five minutes later I felt as though I was going to pass out. I felt terrible. I told him that I had to go home. I wanted him to stay out and both Mandy and I tried to persuade him... but he came home with me. I know he was annoyed and I know he was disappointed. He'd been really looking forward to a good night. Later e learned that two good friends of Russ had come to the Gaunt to see us. We missed them. That made me feel even more guilty.

I walked through the house without stopping to speak to dog or reptiles and straight upstairs dropping my clothes all over the floor as I went. I flopped into bed without washing, cleaning my teeth or saying goodnight to Russ on Valentine's night. It was eight minutes past ten. I heard Russ coming to bed sometime after midnight.

I had completely ruined my boyfriend's night. He didn't deserve that.