Chapter 7 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 7.

Great, my car is still where I left it on Monday, parked
amongst the limousines belonging to senior consultants. I took a
deep breath, slammed the door, fingers crossed, and it started first time.
The security guard saluted my suit, presumably thinking I must be
important to have had such a prime parking bay for a whole week. He
continued to salute all the time whilst he directed my reversing. I
nodded an acknowledgement and engaged forward gear, drove onto the
road, the engine and life feeling sweet after a week of squeaking
ward trolleys and knees out of action.

Precious lanes, unchanged since yesterday, such precious lanes,
so much brighter than the memory, what hand of kindness had stroked
them thus? And home smelt like home, like no-one else's, timeless,
with a warmth. Then the children,.... no emotional welcome for the
returning hero. Just coy smiles, Father was back.

Earlier that morning, after digging out my suit ready to leave,
there had been a flurry of activity, last minute blood tests
overlooked. `Tha'll have to take it easy from now on,' an old
patient had tugged at my sleeve as I attempted to hurry, commenting
on my scurrying limp. That clinches it, I had thought, my walk
having deteriorated after only five days. It's just as important to
keep moving as it is to avoid overdoing things.

Might as well make a start, now that I'm home, deciding to put
more coal on the fire. Flames flickered and I remembered aloud.
`Vitamins!' almost swearing, having intended to buy some on the way
home. Claire suppressed a smile, expecting to hear Father use words
she already knew. I castigated myself, stabbing the coals with a
brass-handled poker. The newspaper fell from my knee. `Damn.' But
as I picked it up an advert leapt from its classified columns: MAIL
ORDER HEALTH PRODUCTS. its address slotted between Private
Services and Condoms by the Gross.

Might as well, it can't do any harm, particularly since experts
give sufferers no hope. `At least if they sell vitamins it will be
worth it,' I showed it to Lena.

My stubborn refusal to accept the doctor's prognosis failed to impress
Her. She preferred to think I would be better off looking
after my health than wasting the price of a stamp.

`Don't get your knickers in a twist,' I tried to leap to my
feet. `I'll buy my own stamp.'

`Take it easy,' she panicked, realising her mistake. `I'll post
it for you.'

`No, thanks, don't bother,' I shook my head, promising to pace
myself on the way to the village post office, planning to avoid
being trapped into gossiping and standing too long. I had a second
letter in my hand, addressed to the Department of Health and Social
Security. Was it this which was responsible for her change of
attitude?

`Just two stamps, please,' I asked when I got there. `Two
stamps, please,' I repeated, three times.

`Yus, I `eard `ee,' Ogram replied, breaking his inertia,
pondering whether to overloading me with pamphlets in an effort to
keep his post office open. The more villagers he could drum up
to claim pensions and benefits the better.

`And two of those Easter eggs,' I said, pointing to his
out-of-season chocolates which were available on discount before
being unfit to sell. I wanted them for Claire and John, and any
excuse to distract Ogram from filling my pockets with leaflets.

Though I returned in one piece perhaps was Lena still
apprehensive? `I'm all right, look,' I assured her. `But tomorrow,
when we go to Leeds, I'll try to get some tablets to last until the
catalogue arrives.'

She nodded, accepted my plan, suggesting that she could save my
legs by looking for health foods whilst doing her shopping. Too
many tablets would be better than none, we agreed. `Come and sit
down,' she moved a cushion for us to relax, watch television, until
the nine o'clock news. By then she was tired, after all her hospital
visiting on top of a week's work, and was soon off to bed, but I had
been on my back since Monday. I could do with another short walk.
Not very romantic, but she was already asleep, and there was still
time for a pint at the local, a chance to mix amongst healthy folk.

`Did the judge give the bail?' Stan guffawed as he carried a
drink for me to the nearest table. Last night Lena had told his wife
of the hospital's diagnosis.

`I'm fine, really,' I showed him by standing on one leg with a
pint of beer in each hand. It was great to be amongst healthy folk.

Next morning was glum. I was all right, it was the clouds that had
a hangover. No wonder the Vikings had pillaged and burned, they
would need a good fire after rowing from Norway in weather like
this, I mused through the window. Surely things could only improve?
`Are you ready?' Lena called from the kitchen. She was waiting,
ready to go.

`Oh, oh,' I replied, unable to think of anything better to say,
dragging on clothes, rushing round the bedroom. Yet my confidence
had recovered by the time we reached the first chemist's shop. It
also sold multivitamin tablets. `Good,' she said, crossing tablets
off her list. `I'll drop you at your parents' whilst I do the rest
of the shopping.'

`It's a pity you didn't get M.S. when you were in the army,'
Mother greeted me. `They'd have given you a good pension.'

Pensions! Are pensions all that women bloody think about? I
thought, slighting half humanity whilst giving Father a knowing
look. `Good idea, a pension,' I smirked, `Provided I wasn't shot in
Egypt, or Cyprus, or Kenya or Aden or Borneo or...'

`You're as bad as your father,' she clicked her tongue and
slammed on the kettle in the kitchen. `You don't deserve to be given
good advice.'

I gave up, Father returning my knowing look. This was the same
Father who had capitulated three years ago, giving her free rein to
pursue that accountant who was dealing with his cousin's will.
Whether she got any more money after reporting him to the Society of
Chartered Accountants we never found out, but he died, stress having
brought on a heart attack. `Justice was done,' she proclaimed,
triumphantly, when she returned with the tea, guessing what we had
been thinking about, `And don't stir your cup that way, Wilf.'......
Eventually Lena rescued me and we had lunch at her mother's.

Not much happened over the next two weeks. Even spring flowers
remained hidden, chilled in the earth. Little chance of me getting
any exercise. But at least I avoided stress by cancelling all the
newspapers, dodging television news and all other depressing
programmes. `That doesn't leave much else for you to watch,' Lena
muttered.

`OK, then. I'll play the hi-fi, put on something which makes
me feel good, perhaps that'll stimulate something.'

She left for school, leaving me to concentrate upon each
record and will my physical recovery, using some kind of untutored
meditation. Did it work? Did it fail? As yet I could not tell, but
the leaning tower of Pisa did not begin to lean in a day. Yet I did
not intend to be leaning for ever and soon a brochure arrived. Page
after page, they sold everything, including a Peking extract which
promised everlasting sex. No wonder there were two billion Chinese.

Do they really? My mind boggled, eyeing one illustration from
every angle, and in so doing caught sight of a small advert in the
opposite corner for Doctor McDougal's gluten-free diet - leaflet
available upon application. It claimed that, particularly when used
together with multivitamin mineral tablets, his diet could offer a
wide range of benefits, even to people with multiple sclerosis.

Within a week of having sent a cheque one month's supply of
tablets and a copy of the diet arrived. "Use only gluten-free
foods," it insisted. "No wheat, no barley, no oats, no rye." Suits
me, I thought, never did like Christmas cakes, pork pies or scones,
so from now on I have a valid excuse to always say `no thanks'.
Trouble was, it also banned goodies like jam tarts and biscuits. Was
it the sweetness of these which disguised their harmful ingredients?
Pity, but the loss is small if it helps me to recover.

In less than a month my gut disorder was cured. Things began to
make sense. It was possible to link the start of my digestion
troubles to those times in the lab when I worked long hours without
meals, existing on biscuits and tea.
That's it. I'm allergic to gluten. The leaflet calls it a
coeliac condition. Even the Greeks knew about it, "fatty diarrhoea"
they named it. I read on, to discover that the condition rendered
patients unable to absorb foods like unsaturated oils. Did these
include the essential fatty acids which were vital for health? Were
they even more essential for the nerves of M.S. sufferers?

Spurred on by my early success I wrote to the Coeliac Society,
requesting a list of gluten-free foods. Their response was instant.

`This Society is only for people who have been medically
diagnosed as having coeliac condition....... I am unable to help you
with literature....... I suggest you write to the M.S. Society.’
The letter was printed. How many others with M.S. had previously
sought their help?

The reply from the M.S. Society came even quicker, plus a
telephone call from their local branch secretary. `Don't you do
anything,' he instructed. `And don't be taken in by any quack
remedies. When there's a cure we will be the first people to know.'
Until then he expected me to sit back and wait.

`Like hell I will,' I crashed down the phone, and got a
hospital dietician to smuggle a list of gluten-free foods.

`It won't work for the majority of sufferers, it can't if
they're not allergic to gluten. But if you're allergic to anything
at all it's worth trying to do something about it.'

True, as forecast, the diet was not a miracle cure but, with my
diarrhoea condition cleared up, at least my body was not starving to
death. As the weeks passed, plus taking the vitamins, people said
how much better I looked - too many for it not to be true. I also
felt better, and I reckon that feeling better actually helped me get
better, but not when I started to walk.

All this pottering about doing nothing. My muscles had been
wasting away. Damn it, I must persevere, to hell with those people
who think my tottering makes me look like Noddy. Trouble was, after
a hundred meters my spine started to ache, just where that lumbar
puncture had been, each pace increasingly spastic. How the hell can
I exercise muscles without putting weight on my spine? `John's
bike. That'll do it,' I tumbled into the kitchen.

`You'll fall off,' Lena said, aiming to dissuade me.

`Maybe, but it won't be the first time,' I grinned, taking a
rest before going outside where I adjusted his saddle.

`Your sense of balance is faulty,' Lena followed, attempting to
save me from myself.

She was right, of course, but only when I had my eyes shut -
except at night when I needed a light or something to focus on.
`I'll be all right, it's daytime. Besides, this bike's only a
compact model.' It did not have a cross bar, thus I would avoid the
unkindest cut of all. `It's also low, so there's not far to fall.
And if I do my legs won't feel it,' I added as a joke, a touch of
bravado to help boost my confidence. `Anyway, people never forget
how to ride.'

At first I nipped round the corner, out of sight. I had
forgotten how to get on! But a row of eyes soon changed windows,
attracted by the crashing and tinkling of the cycle overturning. I
picked it up, pretended not to notice, and failed again. Ha-ha, I
grinned, as though this was just fun. Ha-bloody-ha, after the third
attempt. All right, then, wheel it to where the drive slopes down to
the house. Eyes scuttled back to the living room, watching for my
next disaster. I pushed off, freewheeling whilst each foot trod air
until it found a pedal, and rode past to the family's applause.
`What's he going to do when he reaches the garage door?' John
chuckled, urging Claire to rush for her camera.

I closed one eye, guessed my speed, and wobbled into a turn -
closing one eye was probably half an act of cowardice rather than
that of a whole marksman sighting up his cycle, just missed the
hedge of thorns and emerged pointing back up the drive. `Magic!' I
steered in triumph onto the lane, aiming into the village, intending
to go once round the Green and back.

But my legs were working so well I rode on, along a lane of
hedge-less hedgerows, overtaken by a surge of euphoria until after a
mile my calves began to talk back. How heavy they were, time for a
rest. Decisions! decisions! Which foot to put down? Decisions,
decisions, put both of them down, you're not riding a big racer.

The wheels spun slowly as I looked down, up at the sky, none of my
necessaries grazed after having tippling onto the verge. A sea gull
or something had a laugh to itself. Perhaps at me who, like a dead
chicken, had both legs pointing upwards. `Haw-haw`. Damn thing, still
white against blue despite it having spent its morning scavenging
around the council refuse quarry. `Haw-haw.` It's probably never even
seen the sea. Or is it an albatross, like the badge on the shirt of
that man who played tennis, that man I still hated. That game was
less than four years ago, I lamented; but only for a moment for I
remembered last autumn's interview after which I was able to sprint
up and down escalators - so much hope from such a small seed.

That was then, what about now, did anybody see me making a fool
of myself? I peeped with goat-like curiosity between the disentangled
machine. Slowly, stiffly, a precautionary scan of the lane showed
it to be lifeless, I was still looking upon M.S. as some sort of
failure. Trouble is, there was a chill breeze blowing puffy white
clouds. Must get myself free, and hauled upon my elbows until legs
lifeless had trailed me out of the frame. Better wriggle into that
ditch, shelter from the wind, lie back and rest in the warmth of an
occasional sun.

A farmer, planting potatoes in a field just outside squinting
distance, stopped work, trying to make out what was going on.
Motionless, the landscape, his tractor, and his workers all waited.
I feared at the trespass I might be committing when he began to
approach. `Oh, it's you. We thought you were the Social Security,'
he grumbled with relief. `Sneaky buggers, they are, spying on
honest folk without jobs what are forced to cheat on the dole just
to make ends meet.' The ditch? It weren't his to bother about. He
turned, signalled, all this talk was costing him money, and the
canvas came back to life. A farmer with a conscience who left his
Mercedes back home.

Again on my own, except for birds building nests in the only
scrap of hawthorn left in the lane, I settled back as though for the
day, blood tingling, all feeling returning, the Spring interlude
ending when Adderton's sky curtained over, long before nightfall.
Things could only get colder. Now for the test, can I get home? I
stood up, stretched my legs. Wonderful, things felt wonderful, no
need for a slope before pedalling off this time. I arrived home
stronger than when I set off. Funny how cold did not interfere with
my improvement.

Next day was a school day, with me left in the house. `Will you
be all right?' Lena remained apprehensive, fearing I'd go out and
break more medical advice.

`Of course, I shall.' I was looking forward to being alone,
able to carry my experiments further. `I'll wash the pots after
breakfast,' I called, as she closed the car door, not making mention
of my intention to borrow John's bike once again.

She had no need to worry, for I was cautiously feeling my way
to recovery, and took a short rest whilst the dishes drip dried,
then put on thick clothes to soften the tumbles before pointing his
bike up the drive. Just my luck, nobody to watch when I'm not
falling off, only an audience when I'm making a fool of myself!
Even the wobbles soon disappeared and I covered yesterday's ride,
there and back, all in one go, euphoric at not having to stop.

Breathing deeply, I leant against the kitchen wall and decided
to call it a day. `I could do with a cup of tea, how about you?' I
spoke to the handlebars. `But this time a rest before putting down
my feet.'

When I did risk grounding my legs they were stronger. The
regime I had dreamed up in hospital was working. Not yet a miracle
cure, not like our first climb up Simon's Seat, but still an
improvement built upon exercise.

The third day's ride was even better, taking me three miles
without having to brake, a good enough reason for buying a bike of
my own. Besides, Claire and John were beginning to make hints about
charging me rent.

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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