Chapter 12 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 12.

John was up early next morning, soaking his corn flakes until
soggy in milk, not wishing their crunching should wake us - no way
did he intend to end up bored on another family outing. "Gon to
farm," it said on the note which he left next to his plate.

An ill-spelt note, but it was an ill note that turned our free
time to good and we waited until lunch before calling to collect
him. Yet every silver lining has a cloud - `I've already eaten.
We've all had sandwiches,' he greeted us. In addition to Richard he
was also playing with two other children.

`Do you fancy a game of tennis?' Willy invited, the farm able
to function without him. `This is Heather and Ian, they're staying
with us over half term. They were delighted when your John turned
up.' After a couple of sets we went indoors for a coffee. `They're
my brother's kids. He's been in hospital for tests, about the same
time as you,' he nodded towards me. `He's very poorly, dying from
cancer, but wishes to be nursed at home. That's why Heather and Ian
are here, to give my brother and his wife chance to be alone before
it's too late.' Lena asked for another cup of coffee. Black, very
black, and strong, very strong.

`It's a great week, dad,' John bubbled, especially now that
Claire's Guide camp was over and her return had helped balance the
numbers. Yet like the year's fresh dandelions everything sunny met
its time, turned grey, and their clocks blew away when the school
break came to an end. Heather and Ian were breezed away home in a
large limousine back to Nottingham. Would we ever see them again?

Maybe... one day, but for the moment my competitive exercises
would be restricted to tennis on fine evenings and weekends now that
Lena was returning to her classroom, this time in a flurry of
disorientation after having brushed close to someone else's creaking
mortality. Behind her mask was she wondering, and wondering what?
- perhaps the odds for her own husband when his games were all over?

`What did Stan call that woman in Selby, the one with M.S.?' I
wondered next morning, having decided to fill in the daytime by
finding out more about Vera.... and finding was the operative word.
Street by lane, avenue by crescent, searching for her bungalow
before discovering that she lived in a house. Obviously she was now
able to manage the stairs. `Oh yes, but when my marriage broke up I
was much worse than now,' she switched on the kettle. `I became
blind in one eye, was losing sight in the other, and was dragging
both feet so badly that the toes on my shoes were wearing right
through,' the kettle started to whistle.

`What's your reason for having improved so much?' I asked,
eyeing her carry a tea tray for sign of unsteadiness before we
started to compare discoveries and experiences.

`No, no. Tried it, of course, but it didn't do anything for
me,' she shook her head, having failed to benefit from a gluten-free
diet. `Although I did read another article - well, you know how it
is, anything and everything about M.S. Anyway, in one piece I
recognised the researcher's name. Stroke of luck, really, me having
been his secretary at the university when I lived in Scotland,' she
passed me a cup which rattled on its saucer as her outstretched arm
revealed a slight tremor, almost like anyone's might. `He remembered
me, and even travelled all the way from Edinburgh to carry out
tests.' I kept stirring my tea, absentmindedly stirring in sugar,
anxious to hear more. `He advised me to take 60 ml. of sunflower
oil, every day, plus vitamins, and stop eating any form of animal
fat,' she offered me a biscuit.

`No, thanks, I'm...'
`Ah, yes... Anyway, as you can see, my sight is now almost
perfect, and I only have the slightest limp,' she topped up my cup.
`Mind you, the pains in my legs were also a problem, until they got
better after I massaged them with cream to improve circulation.'

The information about vitamins and circulation matched my
discoveries, but all this business about sunflower oil was something
completely new to my ears.

`It's sometimes prescribed on the National Health Service, you
know,' she added, `If you can find the right hospital.'

`Thanks,' I looked at the time, unable to stay longer, but
determined to do something about sunflower oil. `I'll keep in
touch, let you know how I get on.' It had certainly had been a
worthwhile visit, both having benefited, if only by discussing our
do-it-yourself cures. Next morning I went straight to my hospital
outpatients' department.

`Your specialist is a heart doctor, not a neurologist,' the
receptionist sniffed at my enquiry, her oversized white coat lending
weight to her authority. I refused to move, lolling against her
counter until they had completed referral arrangements with another
infirmary.

Weeks slipped by, yet I remained content in the knowledge that
sooner or later I was to be seen by a consultant neurologist.
Autumn's mists were gathering at dawn upon the webs of the spiders
before a date for the appointment arrived. It was with high
expectations and reawakened enthusiasm I entered his room.

`You can only have five minutes,' he checked his watch: and
checked my optimism - before I had time to sit down, mouth open,
searching for words; whilst he rampaged, praising the skills of my
previous specialist. `A man I know very well,' he waved his
spectacles enthusiastically, then spent the next ten minutes
describing how the National Health Service was falling apart at the
seams. Only then did he refer to my problem, albeit obliquely. `You
should get things into perspective. The roads are filled with Rolls
Royce’s carrying former bankrupts.' My mouth remained open.... I
might be poor, but not yet a bankrupt. `What precisely are you here
for, what is it you want me to say?' he took the top off his pen,
ready to write.

`I don't know, you're the specialist,' finally words slipped
out, my reflex response.

`Take your trousers off,' he continued waving his spectacles,
intending to humiliate and immobilise a troublemaker before he began
what, in law, could be claimed as being an adequate examination.

`I thought you might let me have some sunflower oil,' I
balanced on one leg half trousered.

`Sunflower oil?' he looked puzzled, as though wondering what
was my motive. `We only have emulsified sunflower oil, so you won't
be able to fry chips in it.'

Didn't he realise that people with M.S. just wished to get
better? `I'm not bothered about chips, I want to take the oil as a
medicine.'

`You won't like the taste. You'd be better off buying ordinary
sunflower oil from a health food shop, then mix it with orange juice
to make it more palatable.'

`I'm on a pension, the taste doesn't matter.'

He shrugged his shoulders and began to scribble a prescription.

`Take this to pharmacy.'

The first thing I did back in the car park was to slam my door
and swallowed a dose. `It seems all right to me,.... especially if
it works,' I thought, waiting on the off chance in case something
bad or good would flow through my being. But nothing. `Still, didn't
expect anything yet, it's too soon to tell,' and, licking my lips, I
drove back to Adderton.

Claire greeted me, with a twinkle in her eye, seeking a taste
of my medicine. `Ugh!' she recoiled, `I don't know how you can take
it.'

`I think it's nice,' John savoured his spoonful.

`Oh, dear,' I thought. `I hope that he's not potentially an
MS type. Still, just in case he is, it's even more important for
me to find a prevention as well as a cure.'

`Pardon?'

`Nothing, just thinking.'

On Wednesday we received a telephone call. It was Mary from the
farm. `Willy's brother has died. The funeral's on Saturday. We don't
want the children to be there,' she hesitated. `Can they spend the
day at your house?'

`Of course,' Lena said without hesitation.

`They're more than welcome,' I added, overhearing the call, it
was the least we could do as a thank you - the tennis court having
contributed so much towards my improvement. Their generous
friendship had also, together with that of other villagers, more
than compensated for the attitude of those like the accountant who
was quick to take advantage of my situation.

Come Saturday a car backed into our drive. It was Willy and
Mary delivering the children before driving to John's funeral.
`We've had breakfast, thanks,' the kids said smiling damply, whilst
meandering across our kitchen, their futures lost amongst dreams of
the past, each carrying a bag of spare clothes.

Lena was finishing her toast, but Claire and John were already
outside, `Hi, we're here,' waiting for a game, trying their best to
be doing their best. I joined in, playing dodge ball, jumping and
falling amongst the willow tree's canopy, up to my elbows recovering
the ball from our dike, crawling into Mildew's garden, picking it
out from the stubble which had been her chrysanthemums, moving all
ways each time the game was restarted, my adrenaline rushing,
injected by fun, glowing with exhaustion, long before Willy and Mary
returned.

`Phew, that was much better than going for walks,' I turned to
Lena, breathless, as their car drove away. `What's on television
tonight?'

`Dan phoned about cricket - this afternoon. But you were out of
sight, so I said you'd ring back later.'

`I was only in the dike, looking for the ball,' I moaned,
presuming she'd never even bothered to try - not whilst there was
someone on the phone to whom she could chat. `I better give him a
call, rather than bike, after a day like today,' for Dan farmed in
the middle of nowhere, much further from Adderton than Willy.

`You can if you want. But he's also invited us down for the
evening. Freda and he are guarding their farm.'

`Guarding? More likely their son's borrowed his car,' I
chuckled, glad to be going to another welcoming house, this one with
a permanently blazing log fire.

`What'll you have to drink?' Dan greeted us before we got
through their door....`Mind,' he barred the way, open armed and
bottles in each hand, reminding us to duck to avoid bumping our
heads, their farmhouse having been built during centuries when
people were smaller. `There's a friendly match tomorrow, between
the Gilbert and Sullivan team and Adderton Cricket club. We're a man
short, would you like a game?'

`Would I!' a grin flooded over my face. `It's years since my
bat was tuned up to concert pitch,' I joked at his taunt whilst he
offered to refill the glass. `Well, if you press me..... after all,
the experts say you're not supposed to leave a bottle once it is
opened,' suggesting he offer it round, guessing that nobody else was
drinking white wine. `Oh, dear,.. it looks as though I'll have to
finish it myself.'

The wine jostled for a shrinking space in my glass whilst Dan
continued to pour, `Seriously, we really are a man short,' he said,
`So, as long as you can hold the bat we'll find someone to run.'

He was serious. Trouble was, I had read somewhere that alcohol
interfered with vitamins, so once we got home I took extra B tablets
before going to bed to make up for the drink.

Next morning I felt great. Was the enjoyable evening
responsible for providing the "medicine", and was it masking any
damage from alcohol. It's impossible to say, for I never ever
suffered from hangovers.

`Sorry, Martin. We're not short of a player after all,' the
Gilbert and Sullivan captain greeted as I managed my cycle over the
stile.

`Bugger,' a black crow flapped from the trees. I might have
known, being picked for cricket was too good to be true. What was
worse, I felt a right twit, dressed up in white, being left to sit
amongst the confetti of spectators scattered across grass sunning
close to the tea hut.

`Hang on, we're one man short,' the Adderton captain called
across.... the waft of that crow's wings now out of hearing. Crystal
air swelled my lungs as I squeezed through the doorway and crossed
to the home side's half of the dressing room, their bench more
spell-bound and worn than the visitor's.

`Sorry, he's turned up,' the opening batsman kicked a limp into
my stride. `We can't help it,' he winced, pushing a protector
inside his jockstrap, shrugging off the crow which had swooped back
into my day. `Even our reserve's arrived,' he ignored my pleading
look of despair.

`Nay, it's only a friendly game. Why not play twelve a side?'
the lead baritone struck a note of hope. `And then Martin can have a
game.'

Please, I prayed, not daring to look, this was my last chance.

`Why not. Martin can play with you,' the Adderton captain
played tactics, shuffling the cripple back onto their side. But I
still wanted to hug him, metaphorically like.... might even have
done so, at least in my mind, had he been a young woman.

Wickets fell until, way down in the order, it was my turn to
walk onto the field using my bat as a walking stick .... two crows
deserted the tree..... or were they rooks? Please don't let me be
out first ball.

I prodded away, and lasted five balls, until a snick flew past
the anguished hands of a fielder, racing away distant enough for me
to attempt a run on my own.... Last in, they hadn't thought it
worthwhile to give me a runner, but now reckoned my hop, hop, hop,
and the tumble between wickets worth a run on its own. Please don't
let the other batsman be out, I wanted a chance to score again in
what in all probability would be my last game.

Claire was bored as I dug in, defiant, keeping the bowlers at
bay, so she cleared off to Sally's and arrived there in tears.

`Don't worry, Claire, your father won't die of M.S.,' Sally's
mother comforted her, having been a nurse. `He's not like the daddy
of those two children who played at our house. Their father was ill
from something very much worse,' she continued to assure her
throughout the whole afternoon. `Besides, your father seems to be on
a very good diet.'

It was a good thing Claire had left. Even the spectators were
losing their patience, watching me dabbling away. `Come on, give it
a clout, or get thyself out... Tha's putting us to sleep.'

`Tha's worse than Geoff Boycott,' shouted another, which almost
started a fight.

Three balls later I was out, having tortured the game for an
hour and a hobbled score of just eight. My legs had sensed a memory,
a familiar memory, but were too frightened to run, fearing that crow
and the spectacle of me ending up spread eagled in public.

Early next morning, whilst the village was sleeping, I crept
into a field, took a deep breath, and risked all. `Shazzam! I can
run, I can run, I can run!'

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

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