Chapter 43 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 43

Sequel to "Dangerously Healthy" - October 2001

"Come back in the summer, and we'll fix you up with callipers until your
wheelchair comes through," the specialist had said back in 1974.

"No, I bloody won't" I had muttered under my breath, and a year later I had
"cured" myself. In fact I was so thrilled with what I had done I agreed to
appear in a radio broadcast to describe what I had done.

"Don't you dare use diet. Get into a wheelchair and wait for us to tell you
what to do. If there's any progress we'll be the first to know," stated the
secretary of the local branch of the MS Society, who had tracked me down on
the phone.

But he was not able to say that the Society was supporting any research. In
fact I was led to believe that they had used their muscle to block what they
considered to be controversial fields of research, so I planned to cycle to
London to raise funds for research. - and describe all I had done in a book
called "Dangerously Healthy".

So what has happened since 1985, when the book finishes? Had I cured myself?
Yes, definitely, 98% of the book was true, only the names having been
changed - to protect the guilty as well as the innocent.

Mind you, I frequently receive letters asking, "What happened to Zena?"
After all, had not she been the reason for my recovery after the
exacerbation, a major exacerbation that was partially brought on by the
stress of my divorce?

Well, Zena is still a wonderful person. But after Tuscany she ended up
moving with her job and, though painful at the time, it seemed best that we
part and I remain with my two kids in the family home. Yet I have much to
celebrate, for my memories of those wonderful years with Zena are my
permanent summer, even upon the darkest winter day.

But by now I was writing articles for a broadsheet newspaper, which helped
fill the lonely evenings, and on top of that I even won a literary
competition for the opening chapters of a book.

This should have been good news - But Wrong! It was at this point that
Quacks, a Quaker firm of printers, suggested that I publish my
autobiography, "Before Christmas, when the public is at its most generous,"
they enthused.

Could I risk the stress, for this was little better than vanity publishing?
But I succumbed to my ego, readily persuading myself that raising funds for
research justified the vanity of seeing my book in print/. Besides, being a
Quaker firm I would be subject to less stress.

I should have realised that I was luring myself into an ego boosted
catastrophe, for Quacks soon demolished my interactions. "Still," I
conceded, "They are the professionals, and when they said that publishing
is a complicated process, they must be right.

I was not long before I was to discover that this statement was patently
untrue. By then it was too late, there was no time to waste, Christmas was
approaching fast, and on top of that they were claiming to be finding
difficulty with the "A" of Albatross Books on the book's cover - with vague
words dodging why its colours had faded.

"All right," I retreated., only to discover, many months later, that these
colour had run because they had been struggling to soak off the "A" of
albatross, in their effort to extinguish any reference to my Albatross Books
being involved in the publishing process.

t had been a smooth operation, for every time I pressed my concerns I was
met with the reply, "I'll first have to ask Mr Michael Sessions."

By now I should have been wondering what on earth I had been thinking about,
ending up being involved with a firm that had a name like Quacks. "Anyway,
better make the best of a bad job, and not do anything to slow down the
printing, and miss our Christmas deadline," I attempted to allay my
anxieties, "At least the books will soon be here,"

Wrong! Like the kick from a mule the phone rang in November, "I've bad news
for you. Because we have been let down by the firm laminating the covers we
shall be unable to deliver before Christmas," said Quack's secretary. I was
later led to believe that it was Quacks themselves who were doing the
laminating and, even worse, when the books began to arrive during 1996 it
was merely in dribbles, maybe only 300 or so at a time - and all this long
after the launch publicity had been released.

Even worse was to come. When the first books were delivered to in the shops
every copy contained errors - some with pages printed upside down or even in
the wrong order.

This was a disaster, "But, with this being such an open and shut case of
total incompetence, at least a settlement for damages will be
straightforward," a solicitor assured me.

Quakers never tell lies? It was now that I discovered that, at best, here
was an example of maybe attempting to tell the truth in a manner that is
intended to deceive. It was alleged that I had received letters, cashed
cheques in full compensation for their errors, etc., etc. all allegations
that were patently untrue.

Any of you having read this book, especially if you have MS, will know that
stress is near the top of the worst things for this damned disease. But now
I was broke - he had my money, I had a pile of books that the shops would
not stock because of their faults. So, extra stress or not, I had to accept
the solicitor's advice and take legal action in order to recover damages.

A journalist friend said, going by the modus operendi, said, "He's done this
before." So, after three years of Quack's ducking and diving, with my health
at the point of total collapse and, on top of which the costs were already
passing £11,000, I settled out of court for less than half that was claimed.

How am I now? Well, freed from that awful experience, I am improving and
rediscovering what I found out when I first "cured" myself, even though it
is difficult now that I am on my own

Mind you, though there is still a long way to go, and despite that this
month I am now aged 69, I have discovered an inexpensive do-it-yourself kind
of Procarin that is certainly helping, and which I get from a doctor in
Wales who has MS himself.

Yet there is also something that I had forgotten about. Despite living on my
own, in the middle of nowhere, with youth long since gone, still bruised by
the Quack's experience, with recovery seeming to be an impossible task, I
recently went out with three friends for Sunday lunch. One of them, who is
well into gluten free foods, had insisted on arriving with extra treats
(just in case), and an extra bottle of wine, so it was well after six o'
clock before they had left.

Just time for a rest, I thought at the time, but within an hour a couple of
American friends arrived - they had been climbing in Scotland, but after a
week of rain had given up the challenge. But for me it was wonderful to see
them, and it was half past one in the morning before I got to bed. Trouble
was, I had arranged to meet in Pickering, fifty miles away, an e-mail friend
from Jakarta who was holidaying with her parents near Whitby, on the
Yorkshire coast.

So I got up at six o'clock, just after the sun had risen, washed up last
night's pots, and made use of the bathroom before my two American friends
had got up. Did they know what they were going to do? No, so I left them in
my house with maps of ancient York, free use of my telephone, before I set
off for Pickering.

It was a wonderful experience, the magic of the weekend continuing as I met
my e-mail friend, and after dining like a price arrived home at 6.30 to find
a note saying that the Americans had, "Gone on the Hull ferry to Amsterdam.
Will be back on Friday."

How amazing - despite me being short of sleep, I was tingling all over, as
though brimming with energy. Yes, somehow I had contrived to pace myself,
ever mindful of avoiding "doing too much". I now realise that when I had
"cured" myself, twenty seven years ago, it was not just because I was
playing bad tennis - but I was also because enjoying myself. Yes, back in
1974, I had been enjoying myself, playing bad tennis, whilst at the same
time exercising myself - and the more I exercised myself the better the
tennis, and the better the tennis the more I enjoyed myself.

Yes, yes, yes. It's true. For within a month of that visit from the two
Americans a wonderful e-mail friend from Siberia called to see me - and the
beneficial affect of that experience was just the same.

So, friends, remember, whatever you do, no matter how bad it is, enjoy
yourself - we can't live for ever, but fun is a number one cure.

"I used to think I could walk on water - but then got hot feet, and
discovered it was only thin ice"

Malcolm Birkenshaw
01977-681355
Fax: 01977-680042

m.birkenshaw@albross.fsnet.co.uk

Alternatively this 350 page book is also available in paperback at less than
half price for £5.50 from Malcolm Birkenshaw.

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

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