Chapter 40 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 40.

Next day most of the improvements wore off, although they left
me still better able to handle stress and looking forward to the
next Quaker meeting.

These silent meetings suited me, providing light upon simple
goals I had previously put off. Would the situation with Zena have
been different had I achieved this peace sooner? Other folk might
find yoga, meditation, or similar pursuits just as helpful. Healthy
mind healthy body,... or is it the other way around?

`How's your daughter?' asked Betty who ran the village post
office.

`Very poorly. They made a mess of her operation. Took too much
thyroid away. She'll be on tablets for the rest of her life.'

`Who did the job?' Betty quizzed, her post office being the
central clearing house for all local gossip. Mrs. Pettenger, her
ears pricked up like a bat which had sensed there was something
worth catching in the air, moved even closer and rested her shopping
on the counter. Arthur Fortune stopped counting his pension.

`Begins with a B,' I tried to remember. `Brady, I think. Yes,
Brady.'

`Not the mad Irishman,' her face lit up.

`Why,.. do you know him?' I reacted, unable to see what she
should be laughing about.

`Brady! Know him! Do I know him? I used to be his secretary at
the hospital,' she brought her laughter under control, dabbing away
the tears. `Don't get me wrong. Charming, he was. But, you know the
type, drunk half the time, and a house filled with kids.'

Thank you bloody much, I picked up my Invalidity Benefit. If
only her nosiness could have told me this before the operation, when
Claire was agonising over whether to have radio active therapy
instead..... And caw, caw, caw went the crows.

I visited Claire every day. Good thing Zena's still in Tuscany,
I kept on telling myself in an effort to find some consolation
amongst the thorns. But on the third day two women had beaten me to
Claire's bedside. Who are they? One of them looked familiar, though
the taller one with short grey hair and a complexion ripened by the
good life was a complete stranger. Better hang back until they are
ready to leave, I thought, but the tall one got up as soon as she
saw me retreating to the doorway. `See you tomorrow, Claire,' she
said.

That voice, that voice.... Good gracious, it was Lena, my
former wife. I watched her leave, still unable to recognise her, my
hate and anger gone, almost as though she did not exist. `When I get
out of hospital,' Claire said, hesitatingly, as soon as I sat down,
`In a couple of weeks' time,' she continued, nervously, `The
hospital want me to convalesce at Mum's. You're not angry, are
you?'

`Of course not, Claire,' my face melted, broadly, trying to
ease her anxiety. `It's a good idea, a very good idea. You won't be
fit for your own flat, and I wouldn't be able to care for you
properly if my M.S. ever troubled me.'

`Are you poorly again?'

`No, no. Of course not.'

`You're not just saying that, are you?'

`No, not at all, I really am well,... and pleased, very
pleased,' my smile broadened further as my fingers pressed firmly
like a feather upon the back of her hand, the hand which was not
connected to tubes. `Truly pleased, Claire. Relieved that there's
someone to look after you.' I made no mention of how my health was
beginning to wilt amongst various fissures of stress.

Which included my car, it was playing me up, no longer reliable
enough for running her about: it had come back from the garage with
its engine stuttering and coughing despite having had a major
repair. Yet when life is a bugger it is funny how fate can
intervene, mustard seeds or something keeping my four wheels turning
so I could keep visiting the hospital until Claire went to her
mother's.

But after waving Claire off Sod's Law trampled all over these
seeds, my car dying as I steered back into our drive. Still, Sod and
Bugger must have had quite a tussle because the car kept its final
cough until it was near enough to free-wheel right up to the door of
my house where it became a static display, proof of H.P.
Abberknuckle's assertion that "If it looks wrong, it is wrong".

`Oh, dear. Did it?' said the mechanic responsible for my
indisposition. `If you bring it back for a reservice I'll look at it
first thing in the morning.'

`Like hell you will. It won't bloody move.'

`Well, it you'd like to,....'

`Don't bother. I'll take it somewhere more reliable.'

So I went to Reliaball Motors. They were only too pleased to
send out a recovery truck, promising top class service in keeping
with their Customers' Charter. I would definitely be satisfied, they
assured me, but once they got their spanners to my car their phone
call had a familiar wrench, `I'm afraid it's not good news, Sir,'
they reeled off the estimate.

`That's an awful lot to spend,' I looked down at the drawer
into which my cheque book had hibernated whilst funds were scarce.
`It's an old car, just a case of throwing good money after bad.'

`Definitely not, Sir. It's been up on the ramp, we've had a
good look, the rest of the vehicle is healthy.'

`So it should be, the number of transplants it's received since
I bought it.'

`If you had come to a main agent like us in the first place
you'd have been running around in it trouble free for another ten
years.'

`Ten years?'

`Certainly, Sir. Once the engine's put right you could still
get that out of it.'

`All right, then,' I succumbed, though left without transport
and no chance of seeing Zena I was left with time on my hands, but
time which sleight of hand soon used for carrying out more tests. It
became obvious that I was allergic to lactic acid, in addition to
the fats and gluten which I already avoided. Eureka, Christmas made
sense, the yoghurt I ate before becoming ill was made of milk, an
allergy masked by the penicillin which had made me so much worse.

Right, that sorted out, I set about discovering more about
vitamins. I knew about supplements being used to keep animals in
captivity healthy, but I was more bothered about using them for the
control of M.S. rather than of me having a shock of shiny hair.

`Have you seen this?'

`What?'

`This,' the therapy centre passed me a diet sheet. “Take four
times a day 2 capsules of evening primrose oil, 50 mg
pyridoxine, 250 mg vitamin C, and 5 mg zinc glutamate, plus
0.5 mg Colchicine morning and evening”.

I gave it a try and began to look better, feel better, even
more able to tolerate hot weather (increasing fluid intake also
helped). Severe attacks of M.S. became a thing of the past. Mind
you, occasionally it still gave a little tweak but, if I wanted a
pick-me-up for my circulation, like on a hot day, I would revert to
drinking a cup of strong coffee.

Oh, dear, that explains why my movements were so much better
after each Quaker meeting - black coffee upon an empty stomach, not
a miracle after all! Still, coffee was not the entire answer because
even without caffeine each meeting left me better able to cope.

`Damn,' I cursed. `Damn, damn,' having been so preoccupied
with diets, I had not taken a tranquilliser before going to bed.
`I'll be kept awake all night,' I cursed again, then fell asleep.

Next morning I tried to work out why I had slept so well? Why
no side effects during the night? Why no.... Calcium! That's it.
Calcium! Two weeks ago I had started taking calcium tablets after
years of not drinking milk.

Four days passed, still no withdrawal symptoms, it really does
look as though calcium is a factor. But watch it, don't run the risk
of an attack. Better play safe, reduce the dosage gradually.

`Is my car ready?'

`Sorry, Sir, we're doing our best. We'll let you know when it's
done,' said a man at Reliaballs before starting to blame me, `Had
you come to a main agent like us in the first place......'

I pressed the mute button, swore at a magpie which was thieving
its way down our drive, then decided to avoid stress and slammed
down the receiver. I had problems enough whilst being without car
now that our bus service had been privatised. Best not have a row,
time to go walking, divert your anger, I said to myself, remembering
how that “doo” with Harry Hodger had made a mess of my legs.

Thus I managed a few yards further each day, getting stronger
and stronger, walking and musing, at the same time realising how
much time could have been saved and illness avoided had I been given
a set of allergy tests in the first place.

`Bloody hell,' I jumped, that bloody pony startled me after
having escaped from Adderton Long Meadow yet again. It almost
cantered right through me as Stan's tractor bounced past in
pursuit, bouncing as fast as a tractor can bounce when zigzagging after a recidivistic pony.

`What's a ruddy-vitic pony?'

`It's always damnwell .......,' but he was gone, gone before
being whiplashed by......

Sod it, I'll ring the garage, I doubled back home. If my car's
not ready I'll give them a piece of my...., `How much!?'

`We found more faults than we expected, Sir. You should have
brought it to us sooner,' the man at Reliaballs bounced my anger
straight back in my ear. `It's running beautifully, Sir, you'll get
years of trouble-free motoring. How will you be paying, cash or by
cheque?'

`Are you sure?'

`Certain, Sir. Years of trouble-free motoring.'

`Access, then,' I yielded, flexing my judgement.

Silence.

`Or Visa, if that's easier,' I said, intending to stab a hole
in his commission since a complaint at their price would be futile,
taking comfort in the knowledge that by using a credit card I would
cut into their profits.

`We can't deliver it to you, then, Sir. You'll have to collect
it.'

I walked to the station for a train. Three platform changes
later plus a trudge across town I arrived at the garage where my
car's engine was already warmed. A warmed up engine left me feeling
a little less angry, supposing that this was the kind of service one
got when settling a big bill.

But it is a gullible man who pays for a horse without examining
its teeth and, sure enough, next morning with its engine cold it
required a push start. `The carburettor's faulty, engine's burning
oil, and sounds as though it's running on peanuts so I guess the
timing's way out,' my fist pounded upon the desk in Reliaballs'
reception.

`Take a seat, sir, pour yourself a coffee. I'll get an engineer
onto it right away,' retreated the only salesman not to have dodged
out of sight. He had a half-bald head, or was it a bald half-head
with sideburns and a Reliaballs' jacket over his suit?

Three cups of coffee later the car was ready. `We've dealt with
the faults, sir, but there'll be a small charge for one job not
covered by guarantee.'

Taking pleasure in credit-carding them yet again I left,
smiling, not reading the invoice until getting home.

“To cleaning of exhaust pipe.” `Cheeky sods, it was a brand new
exhaust.' “To fitting new oil filler cap.” `Bloody thieves. It never
burnt oil with the old filler cap. I'm wasting my time, better write
to the manufacturer, and make it a letter that will grab them by
their attentions.'

“Dear Sirs,
I'm one of the dummies who bought one of your cars......”

This letter certainly woke them up, but only to their own
interests. They defended Reliaballs', could offer no help, not
unless I paid for a further examination of my car by another of
their agents.

How naive of me. `I should have realised. Even the best car is,
by its very nature, something with a potential for breakdown, so for
poor manufacturers to survive they must be past experts in
deflecting complaints,' I whinged into my pint that night in the
Jolly Poacher.

`Forget it, you'll only make yourself ill trying to beat them,'
Stan chuckled so as to placate me.

`It's no laughing matter.'

`Cheer up, they've done you a favour,' he stared at my empty
glass. `Make it last until August, then lease a new car from
Motability. They supply most makes, my father had several because of
his knees. Trouble-free motoring, he called it.'

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

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