by Betty Balaba
Lean into It
Betty Balaba
Austin Macauley Publishers
Lean into It
About the Author
About the Book
Dedication
Copyright Information
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1Hang in There
Chapter 2New Brogues and Near Misses
Chapter 3Late Meals and Tape Measures
Chapter 4Skinny Jeans and Cupcakes
Chapter 5Rips and Tears
Chapter 6From Mouth to Hips
Chapter 7Duncan, James Duncan
Chapter 8Light at the End of the Tunnel
Chapter 9Nice and Nouvelle Cuisine
Chapter 10Burnt Toast
Chapter 11Photos and New Possibilities
Chapter 12Emma’s Offer
Chapter 13Neighbours and Gossip
Chapter 14Hidden Treasures
Chapter 15Truths You Didn’t Want to See
Chapter 16Afternoon Tea
Chapter 17Yo-Yoing the Pounds
Chapter 18Boot Camp
Chapter 19Keeping Momentum
Chapter 20New Beginnings
About the Author
Betty Balaba lives between London and the United States and is currently working on her second novel. She worked in marketing before pursuing her dream of becoming a writer. Lean into It is her first novel, a semi-autobiographical book about Becca Johnson, who undergoes major life changes when her mother is suddenly admitted to the hospital for an extended period of time.
About the Book
Becca Johnson is a successful marketing manager who has her life stylishly mapped out, until one day her mother is unexpectedly admitted to hospital. Late nights, stress and a rediscovered sweet tooth lead to her once-elegant thin frame transforming into a large cushion of comfort eating and the pounds pile on. Things aren’t all bad though, a dishy surgeon and a new career path push Becca out of her comfort zone and force her to re-evaluate her life choices. Becca’s life as she knows it is about to come to a screeching halt…
Dedication
For my mother, who showed me that ‘I am my only limits’; and for my father, who always told me everything was possible and to always ‘take courage’.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Betty Balaba (2019)
The right of Betty Balaba to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528926362 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528926379 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528964661 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
This is a story that occupied a number of years of my life and I didn’t know if I would be ready to write about any parts of it. There are many moments of laughter, stress and encouragement. I am very thankful and feel very blessed for all the people who have dipped in and out of my life during this time, because I learnt something from all of you.
I would particularly like to thank my family: my mother, father, Angela, Bryan, Madina, Sarah, Sophia and Samantha for their unending support. To my mother, who said that ‘I had to write’. A special mention to my friend Idiz Boro, who always insisted that I should write – ‘You have many stories to tell. Just start.’
To my friend Joumana – we laughed tears together, who insisted: ‘If the weight went on, then it could come off.’ Thank you to my friends who cheered me on: Mehrnaz, Shahwar, Enrica and Aseel. Thank you to Sophie Milner, whose encouragement made a huge difference.
I would like to thank Austin Macauley Publishers for all their assistance throughout the process, for seeing potential in my book and helping me bring it to a wider audience, making a dream come true. Thank you to everyone I worked with in marketing, we had some great times, giving me cherished memories.
To all the patisseries I visited during this period – sometimes all you really need is a ‘little treat’.
Stressed spelt backwards is desserts…coincidence?
I think not!
Author Unknown
Chapter 1
Hang in There
My breath caught in my throat. You’ve got to be kidding me. I kept my eyes fixed on the bright digital numbers that stared back so unforgivingly. Eventually my head snapped back and I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, grimacing. The previous day, on a whim, I had bought what the Sales Assistant had described as ‘an all-singing, all-dancing scale’. I had nodded enthusiastically when told the scale would measure not only my weight but also my percentage weight, water body percentage and all over body composition. Clearly, I couldn’t do without it.
Well, that was yesterday. Today, something wasn’t right. The figure that stared back so unflinchingly was the same as the one that my old scale had shown! All along, I had thought that the old scale was lying to me. It must have been lying to me! Surely I couldn’t have been the heaviest I’d ever been? I’m only 5’ 6½" and please don’t forget the ½ because it is important to me, in its own way. Well, sometimes I am 5 foot 7 inches depending on what my hair is doing. But surely not tall enough to cause all that weight?
There was no avoiding it now; even the unluckiest person couldn’t be lumped with two broken scales in a row. I was the heaviest I had ever been. Not obese, not out of control by global standards, but a gigantic leap from the weight I was used to.
How had this happened? How had I allowed it to happen? I had always been thin! Not in a vain way, you understand. It was just a fact; like the fact that banging your head against a wall burns 150 calories an hour. Of course, those 150 calories aren’t worth the damage you do to your head. But it’s a fact nonetheless; even if it only takes a minute to decide against that course of action. That’s the thing with weight. It creeps up on you little by little. But when you notice and try to do something about it, you realise that it isn’t going to be as easy to get rid of as it was to gain.
When did this stealth attack start? Exactly one year, two weeks and four days ago. A gradual increase in flesh, of course; a pinch here, an inch there. A breath held while buttoning something up – and before you know it, your once loose top is not only tight but indecently so. Without having even changed my wardrobe, I suddenly found myself a star in my own rap video. I was once one of those annoying people who could eat a dessert every evening. You name it: melt-in-the-middle chocolate pudding, apple crumble, red velvet cake. Never mind the bars of chocolate thrown in for good measure. All previously without putting on an extra ounce – to now suddenly becoming a fat person. Yes, I said it: FAT. My friends always joked that inside me there was a fat person fighting to get out. Well that person in waiting had finally made it; and now the thin person I had once been was stuck insider her.
What caused me to cross the drawbridge? Was it as simple as changing my priorities and not looking after myself enough? Well my bones hadn’t suddenly expanded, and I hadn’t developed a thyroid issue either. I had to admit that the culprits were my good friends, Fork and Spoon. They had found my mouth and taken up residency ther
e. And now I was paying the price.
*
Hospitals are no one’s favourite place. But now I was about to become intimately acquainted with one. The sirens wailed like a life screaming in terror as the ambulance sped on. Yet it was also somehow comforting: at least our situation was being taken seriously, and the world knew it.
I could see my mother’s eyes watering above the oxygen mask, and knew she was scared. She often tried to hide her fear but this was too much. I, at least, needed to stay calm. It was the last thing I felt – but she needed me to.
The inside of the ambulance had a stretcher on one side, where my mother lay. One of the ambulance men was reassuring her while slipping in questions about her health. When she couldn’t answer, he turned to me.
“When did her symptoms start?”
“An hour ago,” I said.
“How was she feeling?”
“She was walking into the kitchen and became breathless.” He glanced at my mother as I continued, “I asked her why a few times, but she didn’t seem to know.”
“Well, we’re giving her oxygen, but to be honest we won’t know more until we have run some tests at the hospital.”
I nodded, knotting my hands whilst perched on a seat by the rear doors of the ambulance. I was scared. People start to feel unwell and then, before you know it, they get worse. And worse…
I smiled at my mother and mouthed, “It will be okay.” Above the mask, her eyes found mine. I started to feel hot. Was it really hot in there or just my reaction? The ambulance seemed to be leading us away to a place that would affect our whole lives. The rush hour was coming to an end and the traffic was beginning to give way. I couldn’t tell you how long the journey took. All I remember is that by the time we got there, the gum I was chewing had lost all its sweetness. That’s a while, right? It certainly felt like a while. I remember wrapping it in a tissue as the ambulance doors flew open, thinking chewing gum didn’t belong in a hospital.
Even though my mother wasn’t in a good way, from the movements behind her mask I could tell she was making a face at me. I had to smile. She was a stickler for manners, and one of the things she least liked me doing was chewing gum. “A horrible habit!” she would say. “It gets everywhere.” Once the offending gum was guiltily wrapped and in my bag, she would visibly relax.
Her hand felt cold as they wheeled her out of the ambulance. “Watch your step!” they said. The warning was useless as I almost tripped and fell. The last thing we needed was both of us in casualty.
They rattled my mother in through the double doors and whatever vestige of control I had was swept away in the claustrophobic, clinical mayhem of the A&E waiting room. The room was packed full of people on gurneys, in wheelchairs, leaning against walls and sitting on any available chairs. Everyone was waiting for something: doctors, medication, and treatment. Hope.
The smell hit me next. Disinfectant, mainly, but also suspense and fear. It was the kind of automatic, unavoidable fear when you face immigration at the airport, even if you have every right to be there. The doctors weren’t even wearing any scrubs. You could only tell them apart by the badges and stethoscopes hanging from their necks. Even though we weren’t there for me, I felt paranoia kick in that they might find something wrong with me. That was their job, wasn’t it? All rushing around like they were going to miss the last train. I saw a little girl clutching the side of her mother’s pleated skirt. Her mother’s arm was being bandaged up after a serious burn. But all I could think about was her daughter’s emotion weighing on those perfect pleats.
My mother was wheeled to a side cubicle; one of six along the wall of the busy room. As we passed, I could see patients through poorly closed curtains. A man in a crumpled suit was sitting with his exhausted head leaning against the wall. A good night had obviously turned into a long night at A&E. A heavily pregnant woman sat on the bed with her husband. His foot was in a bandage; she looked like she was ready to strangle him. The next cubicle was empty but for cleaners. A pool of blood testified to the last emergency. I quickened my step at the sight of it. The next curtain was fully closed, with loud moaning coming from behind it. I was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. It didn’t sound good.
We had been allocated the next cubicle. It had just enough room for a bed and a chair. There was an oxygen tank, some switches along the back wall, and an ominous red ‘Emergency Call’ button. Paperwork was exchanged and curtains drawn. We were secluded but did not feel alone. My mother grimaced. “Are you okay?” The moment I said it, I knew how stupid it sounded. She was far from okay. No response from her, just a continuous low groan and an expression that showed both pain and disdain. Still, I needed to know. “Are you in a lot of pain?” One syllable escaped her lips.
“Yes.”
I peeled back the curtain to see if there was a doctor close by.
“Don’t go.” She whispered. I could hear the panic in her voice.
“I’m just going to find someone.” But who was I going to find? Everyone was busy – doctors, nurses, assistants; they all seemed to be with people. I glimpsed a lady in uniform tidying up a bed in another cubicle.
“Excuse me. Could you please come? My mother is in a lot pain – her leg.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you; you need a doctor, I am just cleaning up here.”
Of course I had found the one person who flat-out couldn’t help. I realised I would have to interrupt the staff at the front desk. I had to take my hat off to them. I couldn’t work in a place like this. Quite apart from the blood, you had to treat, reassure and hopefully still remain human. It was the wrong place for simple number crunching; leave that to the management.
I hated the feeling of worry lodging in my chest. No one acknowledged me at the desk. Finally two doctors appeared, whispering over an X-Ray. They both looked about 18. I just hoped they weren’t trainees. The moment one of them put the X-Ray down and was about to move on, I pounced.
“Excuse me. Please could you come? My mother is in absolute agony. Please…”
“Where is she?”
I led the way, turning back to make sure he was still following me. I yanked back the curtain to find my mother sitting up breathless, her face contoured in pain. She looked even older than she had done ten minutes before, fighting for air as she tried to speak. She stretched her hand out towards me.
Before I knew what was happening, another doctor had appeared, then a nurse, and I was inadvertently shoved out of the tiny cubicle. I sunk into a nearby chair and held my hands together tightly. I sent up a little prayer. “Please,” it said. “Let her be alright.”
But the more medical staff who rushed in and out of the cubicle, the more I knew that something was badly wrong. As the activity increased, so did my heart rate. I knew the doctors needed space to work but I also desperately wanted to know what was happening. I fought the urge, planting myself on a nearby chair.
The curtain flew open, like a startled bird. I jumped.
“We are taking your mother to have a chest x-ray. We also want to check her leg. It is very tender to touch and it is causing her a lot of pain.”
They started to wheel her out. I held her hand tightly. She was trying to return my clasp but it only accentuated how weak she was. Her eyes were starting to water again. My mother hardly ever cried. She gave me one quick frightened glance then turned her head stoically towards the wall. “Don’t leave me,” she said.
“I’m not leaving you,” I replied, keeping pace with the trolley.
We waited three hours while the X-Rays were being assessed. Then the doctor returned.
“We will be admitting your mother to hospital,” he said. “We have to do some further tests, because she has some blood clots in her lungs. We want to do a scan on her leg.”
I looked back at my mother. She was lying down with her eyes closed. I squeezed her hand again and she opened them slightly.
“It will be okay,” I said.
“You don’t know that,
” she answered quietly. She was right, of course. But I did know at least she was in good hands now.
The doctor put her notes down on the bed.
“Someone will come shortly to take her up to the ward,” he said. I knew my mother had been hoping it would be something simple that could be treated quickly before being sent home. Now we both silently realised from the time it was taking (and the number of staff discussing her notes in a huddle) that this would not be the case. The doctors had not said how they would be treating her blood clots. I hoped she would not have to stay for more than a few days. I was already scared about all the random infections you could pick up in hospitals, and besides, people always recovered better at home.
Half an hour later and I had my mother settled in a ward of three other people. They were all blissfully sleeping; unaware of the traumas around them, perhaps dreaming of their own.
A nurse stopped by and asked if my mother had eaten. Her tone was warm and kindly.
“She had dinner before we came,” I said. But it was now two in the morning. If she had not eaten by now, she had missed the chance. We couldn’t eat that late.
The nurse looked down at my mother. “If you need anything,” she said, “you’ve got the bell.”
“Thank you,” I heard my mother say. She sounded grateful for the glimmer of attention. I hooked the wire of the call bell around the bed frame so that she could reach it, even if it fell. I placed the handset next to the stiff white hospital pillow, and pulled the tray table with its jug of water closer to her bed.