Monday, 10 August 2009
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Release Ronnie Biggs now!
What is the purpose of prison? I thought there were three or four possible reasons for imprisonment. First, to punish the perpetrator for a crime. Secondly, to rehabilitate the criminal. Thirdly to prevent the prisoner from committing any further crime and last but apparently not least, for revenge. Oh yes, and “Justice” fits in somewhere between all of these.
I don't understand the Government's stance on Ronnie Biggs. The great train robber and criminal ‘celebrity’ of our time has certainly been punished. Does anyone disagree with that? Unfortunately he's past rehabilitation (I looked it up in the dictionary.... rehabilitate: restore to normal life by training, etc, esp. after imprisonment or illness; restore to former privileges or reputation or to proper condition) and can’t be restored to normal life by training or anything else because allegedly, the poor bloke can no longer speak, walk or talk as a result of several strokes and other health problems. Ergo, we don't need to prevent him from committing further crimes because he couldn’t even get himself out to nick a newspaper at this stage. Justice has been served and I really think that all of us, with the apparent exception of Jack Straw, have had our revenge.
Mr Straw’s much quoted reason for keeping Biggs banged up is that “he remains wholly unrepentant”. That may be so but where in the prison manifesto does it say that repentance is one of the pre-requisites for release? You can call me a cynic but I’m willing to bet that of the hundreds of prisoners released back into society over a year or two, one or two of them may possibly remain “wholly unrepentant” and may even be planning their next crime as we speak.
The original sentence was excessive; the time simply didn’t fit the crime. Ronnie Biggs has now surely paid his dues? His life is all but over, the man is clearly on his last legs and, my fellow tax payers, we’re funding him in prison when he could be back in the bosom of his family who would have the pleasure of funding his remaining few weeks, months or possibly even a year or two.
Let him out for goodness sake. What harm could it do?
I don't understand the Government's stance on Ronnie Biggs. The great train robber and criminal ‘celebrity’ of our time has certainly been punished. Does anyone disagree with that? Unfortunately he's past rehabilitation (I looked it up in the dictionary.... rehabilitate: restore to normal life by training, etc, esp. after imprisonment or illness; restore to former privileges or reputation or to proper condition) and can’t be restored to normal life by training or anything else because allegedly, the poor bloke can no longer speak, walk or talk as a result of several strokes and other health problems. Ergo, we don't need to prevent him from committing further crimes because he couldn’t even get himself out to nick a newspaper at this stage. Justice has been served and I really think that all of us, with the apparent exception of Jack Straw, have had our revenge.
Mr Straw’s much quoted reason for keeping Biggs banged up is that “he remains wholly unrepentant”. That may be so but where in the prison manifesto does it say that repentance is one of the pre-requisites for release? You can call me a cynic but I’m willing to bet that of the hundreds of prisoners released back into society over a year or two, one or two of them may possibly remain “wholly unrepentant” and may even be planning their next crime as we speak.
The original sentence was excessive; the time simply didn’t fit the crime. Ronnie Biggs has now surely paid his dues? His life is all but over, the man is clearly on his last legs and, my fellow tax payers, we’re funding him in prison when he could be back in the bosom of his family who would have the pleasure of funding his remaining few weeks, months or possibly even a year or two.
Let him out for goodness sake. What harm could it do?
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
The pain of panic attacks - doctors failed to spot symptoms that affect one in ten of us
I hadn’t planned to die on 10th August 2003, in fact I was just entering a new phase of life. Having emerged from the backside of an agonising divorce, I was on holiday with the new man.
I finished my coffee, had my cigarette and left the hotel restaurant to take the two-minute walk back down the steep hill to our bedroom. It was a beautiful, hot day. And then it hit me. Half way down the hill, the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced thumped me in the middle of my chest stopping me in my tracks. It sucked my breath away as it travelled down my left arm.
Oimigod, I must be having a heart attack. Too young, too young.
By now, sweating profusely, I summoned up everything I had, forcing myself to walk slowly back to our room, hoping I’d arrive before I kicked the bucket. When I got there, I collapsed onto the bed, perspiring, very nauseous and groaning with pain. I could hear my man happily showering whilst singing Bob Dylan’s ‘If you gotta go, go now’ blissfully unaware that only yards away, I probably was about to go, right then.
The pain was agonising, I tried to slow my breathing down willing it to pass but I felt a strange sense of unreality. I was concerned. How would he cope, emerging from the bathroom to find my dead body on the bed? I was on the verge of calling out, just about unable to bear the pain any longer when, as suddenly as it had come on, it vanished, leaving me feeling fragile and exhausted.
Having had a friend who’d suffered with angina I knew the symptoms and that, I concluded, was what it was. Not a heart attack but a pre-cursor, warning to me to give up smoking, lose some weight and take more exercise. I resolved not to tell him indoors about it (why ruin the holiday after all?) but to see a doctor when I returned home.
Once home I reasoned that it was a one-off and that would be the end of it. How wrong I was.
A couple of long months later, the same crushing chest pain, accompanied by nausea, woke me one morning. I felt faint, I was sweating and a sense of foreboding overtook me. Yet again, I was too scared to go to the doctor and told myself that clearly it was only angina and probably wouldn’t kill me - yet.
The next attack came on six weeks after that, the fourth one around a month later, followed by another one a week later. What was happening to me?
For New Year’s Eve 2003, we had decided to drive to France for the weekend. We arrived late on December 30th, had a fabulous meal and went to sleep. The following morning, the by now familiar crushing chest pain, faint feeling and sickness again awoke me. This time, the colour apparently drained from my face and, feeling really very sick, I rushed to the bathroom only to pass out on the way. He deftly caught me just before I hit the floor whilst losing control of all my body functions. Enough was enough; it was time to see a GP.
Over the course of the next 12 to 18 months I was referred to a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, a cardiologist, an endicronologist, an immunologist, a gynaecologist, a urologist and several therapists. I had EEG’s, ECG’s, endoscopies, colonoscopies, manomentries, ultrasound scans of my vital organs, allergy tests, hormone screening. I stopped smoking and drinking, started taking far more exercise, and I went through a process of food and drink elimination, testing possible triggers one by one.
I was prescribed low-level anti-depressants along with drugs to control acid production in my stomach and Nifedipine – a magic drug that instantly alleviates angina symptoms. Still the episodes continued, increasing in number and intensity until I was having one, two or six per day. Alarmingly, they were now happening at any time and I remained unable to pinpoint any discernible reason or trigger. One really bad day, I had a terrible episode at home and dialled 999. The ambulance service arrived in less than ten minutes, whisking me off to Hampstead’s Royal Free hospital where concerned doctors ran a battery of tests – all of which were very thorough and totally non-illuminating.
By now I was truly terrified. I was convinced that despite all the tests, they’d missed something major. Was it my heart? Maybe some previously unknown form of cancer? Something to do with my digestive or respiratory system? This was taking over my life, I was frightened to be alone lest I faint, fall and injure myself. I worried that I may die at home in bed or on the kitchen floor to be discovered by my then 14 year old son thus condemning him to a future on the therapist couch. It was very debilitating. It was horribly tiring. It was truly bizarre.
During all of this, my anxious parents had mentioned my problem to a friend. He suggested that I might be having stress induced panic attacks, he recognised the symptoms. I ‘pooh-poohed’ this ridiculous, amateur diagnosis. Yes, I may have been through a brutal divorce. Yes I was under pressure but I just wasn’t the sort of person who would be prone to something as mental as a panic attack. I was the sort person whom others relied upon for help and support, not a weed who had to get out of the kitchen. I could take the heat.
One day, in an idle moment, I punched ‘panic attack’ into Google UK. 1,290,000 results showed up and the first one I looked at offered the following:
A panic attack is a severe attack of anxiety and fear which occurs suddenly, often without warning, and for no apparent reason. The cause is not clear. Stressful life events such as bereavement may sometimes trigger a panic attack.
Various symptoms then occur during a panic attack. These include one or more of the following:
• Palpitations or a thumping heart.
• Sweating and trembling.
• Hot flushes or chills.
• Feeling short of breath, sometimes with choking sensations.
• Chest pains.
• Feeling sick.
• Feeling dizzy, or faint.
• Fear of dying or going crazy.
• Numbness or pins and needles.
• Feelings of unreality, or being detached from yourself.
Lordy, lordy. Save for the choking, I was experiencing all of those symptoms each time I had an episode.
The relief I felt upon reading the words on that website was palpable. But could it really be possible that this was all simply a physical manifestation of what was going on in my mind?
I had my work cut out. My next port of call was a different GP who agreed with my diagnosis and immediately referred me to a psychiatrist.
At my first consultation, the psychiatrist suggested that I take heavy-duty anti-depressants (or anti-panic medication) for six months to a year in tandem with having something called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and breathing lessons. Eh? I’d always thought I’d pretty well mastered the art of breathing a while back but apparently my problem stems from hyperventilation and I’d got myself into bad breathing habits. I resisted the anti-depressant route feeling that their potential side effects (such as feeling worse before I felt better, putting on weight and losing my libido) would definitely send me spiralling into a suicidal, let alone depressive, state. I didn’t in all honesty even feel depressed, just chronically anxious about my world, the Universe and everything. The Doc did however explain why my symptoms couldn’t possibly be heart related. At that stage, he began to convince me but nagging doubts persisted.
Some eighteen months later after CBT and breathing tuition, I was having fewer panic attacks (which CBT has taught me to re-frame as “moments of anxiety”) and their nature and intensity had lessened and changed considerably. Part of the change was down to recognising them for what they are and hence I’m was no longer actually panicking during an attack about whether the symptoms were indicative of something more sinister. I was off the fags but still overweight. Getting to that stage has took three years of blood, sweat, tears – and lots of dosh. Sometimes I had several weeks of being totally free of my ‘moments’. However, it wasn’t until this year when I radically changed my diet and lost a lot of weight (see my account in articles on this blog) that the panic attacks stopped altogether. Whilst it may be a small step for mankind, it’s a massive step for me. Life as I knew it had resumed and I feel happier, healthier and more settled than I’ve felt for years.
Although some of the medics I consulted were more open-minded than others, the lack of a clear diagnosis boils down to consultants’ being so narrowly focussed in their own field that they commonly fail to take a holistic view. As a result, they often just don’t see the wood for the trees.
For further information on panic attacks and stress related anxiety disorders, you could start with www.patient.co.uk
With thanks and gratitude to Geoff Rich; Dr Elizabeth Bradley, General Practitioner; Juan-Carlos & Roxanna, Dr Jeremy Pfeffer, Consultant Psychiatrist; Judith Halperin, Clinical Psychologist; Professor Jonathan Brostoff, Immunologist; Mary Walker, Nutritionist and of course, him indoors.
I finished my coffee, had my cigarette and left the hotel restaurant to take the two-minute walk back down the steep hill to our bedroom. It was a beautiful, hot day. And then it hit me. Half way down the hill, the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced thumped me in the middle of my chest stopping me in my tracks. It sucked my breath away as it travelled down my left arm.
Oimigod, I must be having a heart attack. Too young, too young.
By now, sweating profusely, I summoned up everything I had, forcing myself to walk slowly back to our room, hoping I’d arrive before I kicked the bucket. When I got there, I collapsed onto the bed, perspiring, very nauseous and groaning with pain. I could hear my man happily showering whilst singing Bob Dylan’s ‘If you gotta go, go now’ blissfully unaware that only yards away, I probably was about to go, right then.
The pain was agonising, I tried to slow my breathing down willing it to pass but I felt a strange sense of unreality. I was concerned. How would he cope, emerging from the bathroom to find my dead body on the bed? I was on the verge of calling out, just about unable to bear the pain any longer when, as suddenly as it had come on, it vanished, leaving me feeling fragile and exhausted.
Having had a friend who’d suffered with angina I knew the symptoms and that, I concluded, was what it was. Not a heart attack but a pre-cursor, warning to me to give up smoking, lose some weight and take more exercise. I resolved not to tell him indoors about it (why ruin the holiday after all?) but to see a doctor when I returned home.
Once home I reasoned that it was a one-off and that would be the end of it. How wrong I was.
A couple of long months later, the same crushing chest pain, accompanied by nausea, woke me one morning. I felt faint, I was sweating and a sense of foreboding overtook me. Yet again, I was too scared to go to the doctor and told myself that clearly it was only angina and probably wouldn’t kill me - yet.
The next attack came on six weeks after that, the fourth one around a month later, followed by another one a week later. What was happening to me?
For New Year’s Eve 2003, we had decided to drive to France for the weekend. We arrived late on December 30th, had a fabulous meal and went to sleep. The following morning, the by now familiar crushing chest pain, faint feeling and sickness again awoke me. This time, the colour apparently drained from my face and, feeling really very sick, I rushed to the bathroom only to pass out on the way. He deftly caught me just before I hit the floor whilst losing control of all my body functions. Enough was enough; it was time to see a GP.
Over the course of the next 12 to 18 months I was referred to a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, a cardiologist, an endicronologist, an immunologist, a gynaecologist, a urologist and several therapists. I had EEG’s, ECG’s, endoscopies, colonoscopies, manomentries, ultrasound scans of my vital organs, allergy tests, hormone screening. I stopped smoking and drinking, started taking far more exercise, and I went through a process of food and drink elimination, testing possible triggers one by one.
I was prescribed low-level anti-depressants along with drugs to control acid production in my stomach and Nifedipine – a magic drug that instantly alleviates angina symptoms. Still the episodes continued, increasing in number and intensity until I was having one, two or six per day. Alarmingly, they were now happening at any time and I remained unable to pinpoint any discernible reason or trigger. One really bad day, I had a terrible episode at home and dialled 999. The ambulance service arrived in less than ten minutes, whisking me off to Hampstead’s Royal Free hospital where concerned doctors ran a battery of tests – all of which were very thorough and totally non-illuminating.
By now I was truly terrified. I was convinced that despite all the tests, they’d missed something major. Was it my heart? Maybe some previously unknown form of cancer? Something to do with my digestive or respiratory system? This was taking over my life, I was frightened to be alone lest I faint, fall and injure myself. I worried that I may die at home in bed or on the kitchen floor to be discovered by my then 14 year old son thus condemning him to a future on the therapist couch. It was very debilitating. It was horribly tiring. It was truly bizarre.
During all of this, my anxious parents had mentioned my problem to a friend. He suggested that I might be having stress induced panic attacks, he recognised the symptoms. I ‘pooh-poohed’ this ridiculous, amateur diagnosis. Yes, I may have been through a brutal divorce. Yes I was under pressure but I just wasn’t the sort of person who would be prone to something as mental as a panic attack. I was the sort person whom others relied upon for help and support, not a weed who had to get out of the kitchen. I could take the heat.
One day, in an idle moment, I punched ‘panic attack’ into Google UK. 1,290,000 results showed up and the first one I looked at offered the following:
A panic attack is a severe attack of anxiety and fear which occurs suddenly, often without warning, and for no apparent reason. The cause is not clear. Stressful life events such as bereavement may sometimes trigger a panic attack.
Various symptoms then occur during a panic attack. These include one or more of the following:
• Palpitations or a thumping heart.
• Sweating and trembling.
• Hot flushes or chills.
• Feeling short of breath, sometimes with choking sensations.
• Chest pains.
• Feeling sick.
• Feeling dizzy, or faint.
• Fear of dying or going crazy.
• Numbness or pins and needles.
• Feelings of unreality, or being detached from yourself.
Lordy, lordy. Save for the choking, I was experiencing all of those symptoms each time I had an episode.
The relief I felt upon reading the words on that website was palpable. But could it really be possible that this was all simply a physical manifestation of what was going on in my mind?
I had my work cut out. My next port of call was a different GP who agreed with my diagnosis and immediately referred me to a psychiatrist.
At my first consultation, the psychiatrist suggested that I take heavy-duty anti-depressants (or anti-panic medication) for six months to a year in tandem with having something called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and breathing lessons. Eh? I’d always thought I’d pretty well mastered the art of breathing a while back but apparently my problem stems from hyperventilation and I’d got myself into bad breathing habits. I resisted the anti-depressant route feeling that their potential side effects (such as feeling worse before I felt better, putting on weight and losing my libido) would definitely send me spiralling into a suicidal, let alone depressive, state. I didn’t in all honesty even feel depressed, just chronically anxious about my world, the Universe and everything. The Doc did however explain why my symptoms couldn’t possibly be heart related. At that stage, he began to convince me but nagging doubts persisted.
Some eighteen months later after CBT and breathing tuition, I was having fewer panic attacks (which CBT has taught me to re-frame as “moments of anxiety”) and their nature and intensity had lessened and changed considerably. Part of the change was down to recognising them for what they are and hence I’m was no longer actually panicking during an attack about whether the symptoms were indicative of something more sinister. I was off the fags but still overweight. Getting to that stage has took three years of blood, sweat, tears – and lots of dosh. Sometimes I had several weeks of being totally free of my ‘moments’. However, it wasn’t until this year when I radically changed my diet and lost a lot of weight (see my account in articles on this blog) that the panic attacks stopped altogether. Whilst it may be a small step for mankind, it’s a massive step for me. Life as I knew it had resumed and I feel happier, healthier and more settled than I’ve felt for years.
Although some of the medics I consulted were more open-minded than others, the lack of a clear diagnosis boils down to consultants’ being so narrowly focussed in their own field that they commonly fail to take a holistic view. As a result, they often just don’t see the wood for the trees.
For further information on panic attacks and stress related anxiety disorders, you could start with www.patient.co.uk
With thanks and gratitude to Geoff Rich; Dr Elizabeth Bradley, General Practitioner; Juan-Carlos & Roxanna, Dr Jeremy Pfeffer, Consultant Psychiatrist; Judith Halperin, Clinical Psychologist; Professor Jonathan Brostoff, Immunologist; Mary Walker, Nutritionist and of course, him indoors.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Gordon Bennett Gordon Brown. It's time to go!
How much longer can Gordon Brown hang on? When he took the office of Prime Minister, an office for which he was never elected, I said to all the Blair-haters I knew that it wouldn't be long before we were all misty eyed, thinking about the good old days when Tony held the reigns. I really don't like to be smug but if you're right, you're right.
The country's in a mess, the Government's in a mess and Gordon himself has always been a real mess. Probably not a bad man, maybe even a well meaning public servant but not a man suited to the office of Prime Minister. He looks terrible, he can't communicate and his rare smile is enough to frighten all the children. Pit him against Barack Obama, Angela Merkel or even the mildly mad Nicolas Sarkozy and ask yourself, do we want Gordon representing us abroad?
New Labour promised that they would never raise the top rate of income tax. If the Finance Act receives Royal Assent and the top tax rate rises to 50%, the middle classes will be horribly squeezed. Add that to what we've all lost on our pensions and savings and it's people who've worked hard all their lives and saved diligently for their retirement who'll really suffer. I don't blame Gordon Brown entirely for the current economic bolowonga we find ourselves in but, he was Chancellor for a decade and, is it just me or wasn't he one of the best placed people in the entire Universe to have an inkling of what might be around the corner? Other people seemed to know something major was on the horizon.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all thrilled by the idea of David Cameron either but New Labour's time is up. No party should be in power for so long and unless our Gordon realises how dire their position is and then does the right thing, the risk of fragmenting the electorate and opening the door to fringe parties such as The British National Party is frighteningly real. The time for change is here so Gordon, do the decent thing and fall on your sword.
The country's in a mess, the Government's in a mess and Gordon himself has always been a real mess. Probably not a bad man, maybe even a well meaning public servant but not a man suited to the office of Prime Minister. He looks terrible, he can't communicate and his rare smile is enough to frighten all the children. Pit him against Barack Obama, Angela Merkel or even the mildly mad Nicolas Sarkozy and ask yourself, do we want Gordon representing us abroad?
New Labour promised that they would never raise the top rate of income tax. If the Finance Act receives Royal Assent and the top tax rate rises to 50%, the middle classes will be horribly squeezed. Add that to what we've all lost on our pensions and savings and it's people who've worked hard all their lives and saved diligently for their retirement who'll really suffer. I don't blame Gordon Brown entirely for the current economic bolowonga we find ourselves in but, he was Chancellor for a decade and, is it just me or wasn't he one of the best placed people in the entire Universe to have an inkling of what might be around the corner? Other people seemed to know something major was on the horizon.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all thrilled by the idea of David Cameron either but New Labour's time is up. No party should be in power for so long and unless our Gordon realises how dire their position is and then does the right thing, the risk of fragmenting the electorate and opening the door to fringe parties such as The British National Party is frighteningly real. The time for change is here so Gordon, do the decent thing and fall on your sword.
Friday, 29 May 2009
Elizabeth the Third, and beyond....
Let me now take a step back and continue the happy story of health, weight and fitness. I was at my third appointment with the undoubtedly eccentric Elizabeth Gibaud. By then, I was feeling significantly better. Still no panic attacks, still no reflux and a real feeling of boundless energy and well being. Plus, she told me that I'd lost a further twelve pounds in the preceeding two weeks which was thrilling. This was the first time in around 15 years that I'd been able to lose weight and stick to any sort of diet. Ironically, I was helped by the fact that the health problems of him indoors meant that he was also on mission so together, we were unstoppably restrained.
"I'd like you to continue with this detox diet for another four weeks" she said. The impact of her words was palpable. How could I go seasonless, red meatless, dessertless and alcohol free for a whole 'nother month? My head dropped with a bang onto her table as I moaned about the lack of selection on the diet. We started to negotiate. "Could I add in a bit of salmon and tuna?" I asked. "And what about some seasoning? I'm going on holiday in 3 and a half weeks and I can't keep this up in France!" I shrieked. At that stage, Elizabeth did suggest various ways of marginally broadening out the diet whilst telling me, in kindly but no uncertain terms, that I still had a way to go. My bone structure was small and I really should be a much more tiny person. In fact, at that stage of being 12 pounds lighter she was looking for me to shift a further 20 to 22 pounds. I should go back to see her before going on holiday. Good oh, now at least I only had three weeks of this to look forward to.
It wasn't going to be easy. Our whole social life revolves around eating and drinking with friends, colleagues, clients, alone, on holiday - wherever and whatever we do, we eat. Ordering carefully in restaurants and not drinking any wine was taking it's toll on my credibility and my patience. Anyway, I resolved to be as good as I could and focus on how I'd feel when I'd hit the target.
Three weeks later I was back and, having been pretty good about sticking to the diet, I was now feeling amazing. Everything was better, my complexion, my hair, my demeanour, my mood. I felt better and happier than I done for years. The panic attacks were still being held at bay and I hadn't had to take a drug for reflux since I started this whole deal. People were beginning to comment on the weight loss and tell me that I looked totally different. I could even sort of see it myself and I knew how I was feeling.
Elizabeth was thrilled. "You've taken to this like a duck to water" she said as she weighed me, "and you've lost another ten pounds. Don't go too mad in France and you'll keep it off. Come back to see me in a month" she added. I took a deep breath. "Elizabeth," I said "when I first came here I didn't like you at all but now I think I LOVE you" I told her. "I feel as though you've handed me the missing magic key to losing weight and feeling better" I explained. Elizabeth was pleased. "Take care and come back to see me in a month" she said, "and we'll take it from there".
Over the next month, things slipped a little. The holiday in France, the dinner parties, a hectic social diary all conspired to put huge temptations in my way. I had a few glasses of wine, I even ate some dessert and I allowed myself to have some red meat but despite all of those, I was still being fairly careful. I even had one mini-panic attack and had to take a Rennie after a humdingingly indulgent meal.
At my latest Elizabeth appointment earlier this week I found that despite all of the above, I'd lost a further two pounds over the month. Not a disaster but I was mildly disappointed in myself. Increased exercise meant that I definitely looked different and I feel that the weight is redistributing itself around my frame. Elizabeth suggested that I make a last effort by doing the 'detox' again for the next two weeks and prior to my next trip. She prescribed a veritable cocktail of vitamins, minerals, tinctures and something called Bladderwrack - don't even ask. I agreed and I started three days ago.
So the current position is this. Today I weighed myself and I've lost 2 to 3 pounds since Tuesday - not sure of the exact amount as her scales and mine differ slightly. I'm feeling full of energy and I can't sleep although I'm bounding out of bed in the mornings - something I'm really not in the habit of doing. It's like being on drugs. I am a complete convert and make a daily effort to resist being evangelical. I've done a complete 'volte face'. You really ARE what you eat.
As my friend and neighbour said to me, only yesterday, "Nicola, you look fantastic. This thing's really working for you isn't it?"
Well, I have to agree, it really, really is.
"I'd like you to continue with this detox diet for another four weeks" she said. The impact of her words was palpable. How could I go seasonless, red meatless, dessertless and alcohol free for a whole 'nother month? My head dropped with a bang onto her table as I moaned about the lack of selection on the diet. We started to negotiate. "Could I add in a bit of salmon and tuna?" I asked. "And what about some seasoning? I'm going on holiday in 3 and a half weeks and I can't keep this up in France!" I shrieked. At that stage, Elizabeth did suggest various ways of marginally broadening out the diet whilst telling me, in kindly but no uncertain terms, that I still had a way to go. My bone structure was small and I really should be a much more tiny person. In fact, at that stage of being 12 pounds lighter she was looking for me to shift a further 20 to 22 pounds. I should go back to see her before going on holiday. Good oh, now at least I only had three weeks of this to look forward to.
It wasn't going to be easy. Our whole social life revolves around eating and drinking with friends, colleagues, clients, alone, on holiday - wherever and whatever we do, we eat. Ordering carefully in restaurants and not drinking any wine was taking it's toll on my credibility and my patience. Anyway, I resolved to be as good as I could and focus on how I'd feel when I'd hit the target.
Three weeks later I was back and, having been pretty good about sticking to the diet, I was now feeling amazing. Everything was better, my complexion, my hair, my demeanour, my mood. I felt better and happier than I done for years. The panic attacks were still being held at bay and I hadn't had to take a drug for reflux since I started this whole deal. People were beginning to comment on the weight loss and tell me that I looked totally different. I could even sort of see it myself and I knew how I was feeling.
Elizabeth was thrilled. "You've taken to this like a duck to water" she said as she weighed me, "and you've lost another ten pounds. Don't go too mad in France and you'll keep it off. Come back to see me in a month" she added. I took a deep breath. "Elizabeth," I said "when I first came here I didn't like you at all but now I think I LOVE you" I told her. "I feel as though you've handed me the missing magic key to losing weight and feeling better" I explained. Elizabeth was pleased. "Take care and come back to see me in a month" she said, "and we'll take it from there".
Over the next month, things slipped a little. The holiday in France, the dinner parties, a hectic social diary all conspired to put huge temptations in my way. I had a few glasses of wine, I even ate some dessert and I allowed myself to have some red meat but despite all of those, I was still being fairly careful. I even had one mini-panic attack and had to take a Rennie after a humdingingly indulgent meal.
At my latest Elizabeth appointment earlier this week I found that despite all of the above, I'd lost a further two pounds over the month. Not a disaster but I was mildly disappointed in myself. Increased exercise meant that I definitely looked different and I feel that the weight is redistributing itself around my frame. Elizabeth suggested that I make a last effort by doing the 'detox' again for the next two weeks and prior to my next trip. She prescribed a veritable cocktail of vitamins, minerals, tinctures and something called Bladderwrack - don't even ask. I agreed and I started three days ago.
So the current position is this. Today I weighed myself and I've lost 2 to 3 pounds since Tuesday - not sure of the exact amount as her scales and mine differ slightly. I'm feeling full of energy and I can't sleep although I'm bounding out of bed in the mornings - something I'm really not in the habit of doing. It's like being on drugs. I am a complete convert and make a daily effort to resist being evangelical. I've done a complete 'volte face'. You really ARE what you eat.
As my friend and neighbour said to me, only yesterday, "Nicola, you look fantastic. This thing's really working for you isn't it?"
Well, I have to agree, it really, really is.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Low fat witchcraft
At the start of my second appointment with naturopath Elizabeth Gibaud (see previous posting of 8 April), I realised my first instincts had been right. I really didn't like her one little bit. We started off our session with a heated debate on panic attacks with her telling me that what I had been having for the past four years were not panic attacks - enough to send me spiralling into a bit of a panic on the spot.
Oh really Elizabeth? Well, don't tell me about panic attacks. I know all about them having suffered them, having been scared witless for the first two years because a range of eminent 'ologists failed to diagnose them, having had just about every medical test known to man to eliminate all other nasty possibilities and having researched, written, published, read, spoken, lived and breathed them and been for endless therapy and alternative treatments. We found ourselves spatting about the symptoms with her telling me that, for example, the chronic chest pain I suffered mid-attack was not part of panic syndrome. I resolved to print out some up to date information and present it to her on my next visit but to get off the subject before I punched her in the mouth or wasted any more of my time during the short appointment.
So, I'd lost 8lb which was fan-bloody-tastic and now (she said) I must stay on the detox for the following week except that there were a few more things to exclude. I shouldn't eat lettuce or celery or even look at rocket. I mustn't touch a sweet potato or be tempted by avocado. I should continue with the eighty three supplements she had prescribed, try to factor porridge into my breakfast (no way was I going to do that, I hate porridge) and cut down on the fruit allowance she had previously allowed. Why, I asked her? What harm could celery do? It's too salty dear, she said. Where do you think celery salt comes from? I didn't bother to ask about lettuce and rocket as the explanation was bound to disappoint.
I left her feeling pretty miserable about the prospect of the coming week. I had some social arrangements involving eating in restaurants and was worried about coping with those. Ordering plain chicken or fish with no seasoning whilst all around me scoffed things with sauces and chocolate desserts was, even at this early stage, getting horribly boring. Still, I resolved to continue as the results were showing on the scales - her scales, I never weigh myself at home lest I should be discouraged.
It was a hard week. Two dinner dates and a family gathering meant that my self control was stretched to the limit. As I'm a person who can resist anything but temptation, I was really proud that my resolve was steady and I barely strayed from the Elizabeth's restrictions, barring the odd bit of unavoidable lettuce in my undressed salads.
I arrived at the third appointment with a feeling of trepidation. I didn't think I'd lost that much more weight although I was holding the panic attacks at bay and the reflux hadn't bothered me at all. I jumped onto the scales to find I'd lost another four pounds. That was a total of twelve pounds in two weeks! I could have wept with joy.
What was Elizabeth going to tell me to do next and perhaps she's a witch I thought.
Oh really Elizabeth? Well, don't tell me about panic attacks. I know all about them having suffered them, having been scared witless for the first two years because a range of eminent 'ologists failed to diagnose them, having had just about every medical test known to man to eliminate all other nasty possibilities and having researched, written, published, read, spoken, lived and breathed them and been for endless therapy and alternative treatments. We found ourselves spatting about the symptoms with her telling me that, for example, the chronic chest pain I suffered mid-attack was not part of panic syndrome. I resolved to print out some up to date information and present it to her on my next visit but to get off the subject before I punched her in the mouth or wasted any more of my time during the short appointment.
So, I'd lost 8lb which was fan-bloody-tastic and now (she said) I must stay on the detox for the following week except that there were a few more things to exclude. I shouldn't eat lettuce or celery or even look at rocket. I mustn't touch a sweet potato or be tempted by avocado. I should continue with the eighty three supplements she had prescribed, try to factor porridge into my breakfast (no way was I going to do that, I hate porridge) and cut down on the fruit allowance she had previously allowed. Why, I asked her? What harm could celery do? It's too salty dear, she said. Where do you think celery salt comes from? I didn't bother to ask about lettuce and rocket as the explanation was bound to disappoint.
I left her feeling pretty miserable about the prospect of the coming week. I had some social arrangements involving eating in restaurants and was worried about coping with those. Ordering plain chicken or fish with no seasoning whilst all around me scoffed things with sauces and chocolate desserts was, even at this early stage, getting horribly boring. Still, I resolved to continue as the results were showing on the scales - her scales, I never weigh myself at home lest I should be discouraged.
It was a hard week. Two dinner dates and a family gathering meant that my self control was stretched to the limit. As I'm a person who can resist anything but temptation, I was really proud that my resolve was steady and I barely strayed from the Elizabeth's restrictions, barring the odd bit of unavoidable lettuce in my undressed salads.
I arrived at the third appointment with a feeling of trepidation. I didn't think I'd lost that much more weight although I was holding the panic attacks at bay and the reflux hadn't bothered me at all. I jumped onto the scales to find I'd lost another four pounds. That was a total of twelve pounds in two weeks! I could have wept with joy.
What was Elizabeth going to tell me to do next and perhaps she's a witch I thought.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Is the Church right or am I just getting old?
I must be getting old or something. This morning, the news reported that Church groups take exception to major football matches being scheduled on Easter Sunday, the holiest day in the Christian calendar. Today’s match, Aston Villa against Everton, is in their direct line of fire. The Church groups say that they now accept that Sunday is a working day for many people but that Easter Sunday, when shops are shut by law, should be different. Scheduling major football fixtures on this holy day shows, they say, disdain for the country’s religious traditions and lack of sensitivity toward many football supporters and employees.
Well, as a Jew, I heartily agree with them but I’d go one stage further. Not only do I think that Easter Sunday, Christmas Day and all major Christian festivals should be sacred (we’re living a Christian country after all) but I don’t accept Sunday as a working day and believe that Sunday trading should cease too. We always used to manage when the shops were closed on Sunday and I’m sure that with a modicum of personal organisation, we could do so again. Lack of observance, dwindling respect for the traditions of the country in which we live and worship at the altar of the shopping mall erode human values and are perhaps partly responsible for, what I see as, the general deterioration of today’s society. People, and young people in particular, need to have the option of a framework in which to operate. You reap what you sow and by gradually removing all the boundaries we had when we were growing up we grind down today’s kids leaving them kind of rootless and aimless, unsure of their role and uncertain of what they’re supposed to do or how they’re supposed to behave.
Don’t get me wrong. I see myself as a liberal thinker and wouldn’t advocate the return of capital or corporal punishment or anything draconian like that but shouldn’t we have a day a week when there are no shops open and nothing much happening? Wouldn’t that be refreshing and cleansing – and quiet? Wouldn’t it mean a day fairly free of traffic and general rushing about? Would it not give us time to contemplate, calm down and spend time with our family and friends? We could do olde fashioned things like cooking Sunday lunch, going for a walk and sitting down, all together, in front of a nice film with a bumper bar of Cadbury's dairy milk.
So, unusually for me, I find myself in complete agreement with the Church - on this matter at least. Now, where are my car keys? I’m off to supermarket.
Well, as a Jew, I heartily agree with them but I’d go one stage further. Not only do I think that Easter Sunday, Christmas Day and all major Christian festivals should be sacred (we’re living a Christian country after all) but I don’t accept Sunday as a working day and believe that Sunday trading should cease too. We always used to manage when the shops were closed on Sunday and I’m sure that with a modicum of personal organisation, we could do so again. Lack of observance, dwindling respect for the traditions of the country in which we live and worship at the altar of the shopping mall erode human values and are perhaps partly responsible for, what I see as, the general deterioration of today’s society. People, and young people in particular, need to have the option of a framework in which to operate. You reap what you sow and by gradually removing all the boundaries we had when we were growing up we grind down today’s kids leaving them kind of rootless and aimless, unsure of their role and uncertain of what they’re supposed to do or how they’re supposed to behave.
Don’t get me wrong. I see myself as a liberal thinker and wouldn’t advocate the return of capital or corporal punishment or anything draconian like that but shouldn’t we have a day a week when there are no shops open and nothing much happening? Wouldn’t that be refreshing and cleansing – and quiet? Wouldn’t it mean a day fairly free of traffic and general rushing about? Would it not give us time to contemplate, calm down and spend time with our family and friends? We could do olde fashioned things like cooking Sunday lunch, going for a walk and sitting down, all together, in front of a nice film with a bumper bar of Cadbury's dairy milk.
So, unusually for me, I find myself in complete agreement with the Church - on this matter at least. Now, where are my car keys? I’m off to supermarket.
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