When you are a doctor your power is immense. They have the means to save people's lives and to prolong them. The drugs they give out can have a profound effect on people and their well-being. And when they screw things up, they can really do damage.
When I met my wife she had been diagnosed with depression a few years before. She had been prescribed anti-depressants - Effexor, the flavour of that particular month, so to speak - and took them daily. She said if she didn't take them, the withdrawal symptoms were quite severe.
A few years into our relationship she decided not to take them anymore, but instead of going cold turkey (which she had tried before and gotten massive headaches, dark thoughts and nausea) she opted to wean herself off them.
I have vivid memories of us cutting pills into thirds and quarters in coffee shops, laughing at the time because we must have looked like desperate addicts trying to eke the goodness out of the last of our stash. But she needed to do this in order to maintain enough of a dose to stave off the withdrawal symptoms but still reduce her dose.
After a good six months, she was off them - just as evidence started coming out that Effexor were quite nasty indeed. Just Google the name and you'll come accross endless tales of spiralling into depths that most of us can't imagine.
But just because she was off the pills, it didn't mean her depression had gone away. The symptoms came and went in waves, according to how much she drank or how tired she was from work - but she did a good job of carrying on regardless.
And every time she went to the doctor for something else, they always pointed to the fact she had had depression in the past - one even brought it up when she had broken her wrist, as if the two could somehow be related.
Quack after quack tried to foist various potions onto her in order to "cure" her of depression. Tranquillisers, feel-good pills, various riffs on Effexor - she was offered them all. But instead she tried thinking her way out of it. And it worked to a certain extent.
But after our daughter was born, some symptoms came back with a vengeance, along with a chronic sense of fatigue. It wasn't just because of the broken nights' sleep, because this went on for 18 months. Again, doctors looked to the symptoms and immediately diagnosed depression - and, young lady, why not try these pills?
Admittedly one tried blood tests, but found nothing, so diagnosed ME, or chronic fatigue syndrome. Well, at least it wasn't depression.
But then she did something that helped her no end. Or rather she stopped doing something. She gave up wheat.
Not only did her energy levels rise and her digestion improve (I didn't go into details about that bit, I have to confess), but also what she termed a "fog" lifted from her head. Optimistic thoughts began to flow in.
As these good thoughts were appearing, her mind had been on the default setting of being depressed for so long, it demanded to know why she was being so damned positive.
But the fact she was thinking positive thoughts was a massive step forward - and because the fog had lifted, she was able to rationalise the 'good' thoughts as the way things are for the rest of the world.
The giving up of wheat came about because a friend of hers had suffered from ME as a teenager and she had also been told to omit it from her diet - and had seen improvements. But for it to drasically improve my wife's outlook on life in general was something she had not expected to happen.
It was such a simple thing to do - because giving up wheat isn't the biggest sacrifice in the world, by a long shot. I would say swearing off coffee, beer and chocolate would be a lot more difficult to do than steering clear of bread, pasta and cereal.
Sure, our evidence is anecdotal - my wife only knows it works for her. But as it hasn't involved a radical change in lifestyle and certainly nothing could have got any worse if she tried it, it was worth a go. As treatment regimes go, it is pretty damn low-risk.
But here's where I get a little perplexed. If the answer was so simple - and, as the internet has shown us, far from unknown - why didn't one doctor in the last 10 or 12 years suggest to my wife that perhaps instead of taking a bunch of pills which will at best numb your brain a bit and at worst make a person suicidal, she change what she eats?
It can't be because it is in their best interests to peddle the pills they have in turn been peddled by smart sales reps who give generous gifts at Christmas time. Could it?
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Monday, 28 March 2011
Gives New Meaning to the Phrase Chariots of Fire
This is childish, but... hee hee hee.
I'd have thought that it was a given - no need to put it on the sign.
I'd have thought that it was a given - no need to put it on the sign.
The Story of Fat Mike (not that one)
I used to know a man called Fat Mike. This wasn't his real name, nor did I know of anyone calling him that to his face. But his name was Mike and he was fat.
He never said much. He didn't need to. He used to walk around the place with a half-smile that suggested he knew something that you didn't. He liked pizza, computer games and wearing fishnet tank-tops. And spending money.
The most he spoke to me was when he knocked at my door on a summer's day. I hadn't seen him for around three years - he had moved towns for reasons I will divulge later. He stood on my doorstep sweating and without a "hello" he pointed at my car and asked: "Do you want to buy an engine for that? I've got one."
I told him I was OK thanks, as my car already had an engine. "Oh," he said. "Well, do you want to buy the body of a Vauxhall Viva? It doesn't have an engine though."
It is worth pointing out that this Fat Mike never sang for NOFX - nor did we even know of a band called NOFX fronted by a man named Fat Mike when our guy had the same name bestowed upon him. This was 1991 in a far flung Southern Hemisphere country, we were still getting used to the idea that Elvis had died.
Anyway, back to our Mike. He went to university, which is where I first met him, for about a term. He arrived in town with $3,500 to his name - after paying his fees - which was more than enough to get him started with a place to live. Back then a lot of students got Government grants to live on, so he was OK.
Or he would have been if he hadn't rented the 46in TV, the top-notch washing machine and dryer. Not to mention the fact he bought a Nintendo whatever-they-were-called back then, with a stack of games.
He wasn't exactly frugal with his energy consumption either. As well as having a clothes dryer, he used to use the oven to deal with his wet clothes. And when he wasn't drying stuff with it, it was kept open to heat the house.
His room-mate - who commented that Mike displayed the territorial instincts of a wolf by leaving underwear in every single room except his - once found a couple of pairs of kecks under the grill. When he asked why, Mike apparently replied: "I need them today and they are wet." His room-mate moved out soon after.
As the oven was used as an express clothes dryer, you'd be right in thinking not a lot of cooking went on in it. In fact aside from the fridge, nothing in the kitchen saw any use whatsoever. But the local pizza delivery soon knew Mike on a first-name basis.
I have been told that within weeks of Mike moving into his apartment, pizza boxes littered the room - to the point where he put one down on the floor so as to get himself a drink, only to lose it among the detritus when he stepped back into the lounge.
I know this because another man I knew - let's call him Shane - went round to his house three days later, found the uneaten pizza still in its box and polished it off.
Predictably, after this high living, he landed himself in a spot of debt. In fact he ended up in hock to the tune of around $7,000 after one term. That's over $10,000 spent in less than three months. It may not sound very excessive to many now, but back then many students lived for an entire year on $7,000.
So Mike did what any self-respecting young man would do: he moved back with his mother, in a small town about two hours' drive from where the university was. But just because he was under Mum's roof didn't mean the debts disappeared.
They followed him, because when he signed up for his apartment, he had left a forwarding address. He hadn't planned on skipping out on bills; it just turned out that way.
So he did what he felt was necessary: he looked around his mother's house for something to sell. And he did find one object, in a small downstairs room. In fact it was in the smallest downstairs room.
Yes, that's right, he sold his own mother's toilet. I am unsure as to who he sold it to or how much he got for it, but sell it he did. And to this day, despite many enquiries, I do not know what his mother's reaction was when she found a space where the bowl and cistern should have been in the downstairs bog.
I hope for him she was understanding. Because he was living by the (not-so) age-old adage: If life gives you shit, sell your mother's toilet.
He never said much. He didn't need to. He used to walk around the place with a half-smile that suggested he knew something that you didn't. He liked pizza, computer games and wearing fishnet tank-tops. And spending money.
The most he spoke to me was when he knocked at my door on a summer's day. I hadn't seen him for around three years - he had moved towns for reasons I will divulge later. He stood on my doorstep sweating and without a "hello" he pointed at my car and asked: "Do you want to buy an engine for that? I've got one."
I told him I was OK thanks, as my car already had an engine. "Oh," he said. "Well, do you want to buy the body of a Vauxhall Viva? It doesn't have an engine though."
It is worth pointing out that this Fat Mike never sang for NOFX - nor did we even know of a band called NOFX fronted by a man named Fat Mike when our guy had the same name bestowed upon him. This was 1991 in a far flung Southern Hemisphere country, we were still getting used to the idea that Elvis had died.
Anyway, back to our Mike. He went to university, which is where I first met him, for about a term. He arrived in town with $3,500 to his name - after paying his fees - which was more than enough to get him started with a place to live. Back then a lot of students got Government grants to live on, so he was OK.
Or he would have been if he hadn't rented the 46in TV, the top-notch washing machine and dryer. Not to mention the fact he bought a Nintendo whatever-they-were-called back then, with a stack of games.
He wasn't exactly frugal with his energy consumption either. As well as having a clothes dryer, he used to use the oven to deal with his wet clothes. And when he wasn't drying stuff with it, it was kept open to heat the house.
His room-mate - who commented that Mike displayed the territorial instincts of a wolf by leaving underwear in every single room except his - once found a couple of pairs of kecks under the grill. When he asked why, Mike apparently replied: "I need them today and they are wet." His room-mate moved out soon after.
As the oven was used as an express clothes dryer, you'd be right in thinking not a lot of cooking went on in it. In fact aside from the fridge, nothing in the kitchen saw any use whatsoever. But the local pizza delivery soon knew Mike on a first-name basis.
I have been told that within weeks of Mike moving into his apartment, pizza boxes littered the room - to the point where he put one down on the floor so as to get himself a drink, only to lose it among the detritus when he stepped back into the lounge.
I know this because another man I knew - let's call him Shane - went round to his house three days later, found the uneaten pizza still in its box and polished it off.
Predictably, after this high living, he landed himself in a spot of debt. In fact he ended up in hock to the tune of around $7,000 after one term. That's over $10,000 spent in less than three months. It may not sound very excessive to many now, but back then many students lived for an entire year on $7,000.
So Mike did what any self-respecting young man would do: he moved back with his mother, in a small town about two hours' drive from where the university was. But just because he was under Mum's roof didn't mean the debts disappeared.
They followed him, because when he signed up for his apartment, he had left a forwarding address. He hadn't planned on skipping out on bills; it just turned out that way.
So he did what he felt was necessary: he looked around his mother's house for something to sell. And he did find one object, in a small downstairs room. In fact it was in the smallest downstairs room.
Yes, that's right, he sold his own mother's toilet. I am unsure as to who he sold it to or how much he got for it, but sell it he did. And to this day, despite many enquiries, I do not know what his mother's reaction was when she found a space where the bowl and cistern should have been in the downstairs bog.
I hope for him she was understanding. Because he was living by the (not-so) age-old adage: If life gives you shit, sell your mother's toilet.
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Simple is Best? Most of the Time it is True
There's a saying popular in Japan that 'simple is best'. The saying itself is pretty self-explanatory and can be extrapolated thus: if you over-complicate things, you may find yourself in trouble.
The thing that got me thinking about this was yesterday I went for my first-ever run barefoot. I don't mean wearing those gorilla-feet things, I mean with no shoes. It was only a short one and off-road, so as not to attract too many weird glances in the decidedly normal town I live in.
And guess what? I survived it. No busted knees or punctured feet – in fact afterwards I felt pretty good. I might even do it again. Maybe there is something in this whole barefoot running movement.
Running for about 45 minutes on my barefeet got me thinking about other sports – and the fact that in themselves they aren't all that complicated. It is just people on the periphery that make them complex. Take football, or soccer, for instance.
I went to a press conference the other day featuring the recently reinstated England captain, John Terry. The reasons for his demotion and subsequent reinstatement have been well-documented, but if you are unfamiliar with the story, then this is a good link.
As captain of England and Chelsea, his club, Terry is in charge of 10 other players, who are paid vast sums of money to kick a ball past 11 more men who are paid just as much. Simple.
In fact the game is so simple that people are forced to look beyond the actual game to come up with something interesting about it. Such as the fact the England captain has done the nasty with a team mate's ex-girlfriend.
Or another player is so annoyed with his manager that he leaks to the press a (true) story of him working his way through the female portion of staff at the club.
Or the notion that a rival club "hates" another and therefore will provide a backdrop worthy of a soap opera or professional wrestling tournament when they meet.
As titillating as these stories may be, they can get a little tiresome. Especially when you realise that sport is supposed to be simple.
To go off on a tangent, simple worked for the Ramones, who made a 20-year career out of three chords played with as many instruments. It works for a meal, as any steak or sushi-lover will tell you. It also works for beer, as the best brews often have just three ingredients.
And, as I found as I ran down the trail holding my shoes in my hands, it can work for sport as well. Just as long as you don't overcomplicate things.
The thing that got me thinking about this was yesterday I went for my first-ever run barefoot. I don't mean wearing those gorilla-feet things, I mean with no shoes. It was only a short one and off-road, so as not to attract too many weird glances in the decidedly normal town I live in.
And guess what? I survived it. No busted knees or punctured feet – in fact afterwards I felt pretty good. I might even do it again. Maybe there is something in this whole barefoot running movement.
Running for about 45 minutes on my barefeet got me thinking about other sports – and the fact that in themselves they aren't all that complicated. It is just people on the periphery that make them complex. Take football, or soccer, for instance.
I went to a press conference the other day featuring the recently reinstated England captain, John Terry. The reasons for his demotion and subsequent reinstatement have been well-documented, but if you are unfamiliar with the story, then this is a good link.
As captain of England and Chelsea, his club, Terry is in charge of 10 other players, who are paid vast sums of money to kick a ball past 11 more men who are paid just as much. Simple.
In fact the game is so simple that people are forced to look beyond the actual game to come up with something interesting about it. Such as the fact the England captain has done the nasty with a team mate's ex-girlfriend.
Or another player is so annoyed with his manager that he leaks to the press a (true) story of him working his way through the female portion of staff at the club.
Or the notion that a rival club "hates" another and therefore will provide a backdrop worthy of a soap opera or professional wrestling tournament when they meet.
As titillating as these stories may be, they can get a little tiresome. Especially when you realise that sport is supposed to be simple.
To go off on a tangent, simple worked for the Ramones, who made a 20-year career out of three chords played with as many instruments. It works for a meal, as any steak or sushi-lover will tell you. It also works for beer, as the best brews often have just three ingredients.
And, as I found as I ran down the trail holding my shoes in my hands, it can work for sport as well. Just as long as you don't overcomplicate things.
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