Nutrition For A Longer Healthier Life

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Loving being creative about nutrition

This is the last entry in my blog and it’s to say thank you to my clever and inspiring friend Mike Baker who died recently. He was a hugely talented and gifted man, well researched, reasoned, so funny, quirky and enthusiastic, a proper gentleman who always generously supported and encouraged me. Fantastically talented, he was incredibly down to earth and was happy to be a member of our idiosyncratic book group, going so far as to invent a suitably pompous cod Latin name for us, The Pilatti Literati.

Swift on the heals of his lung cancer diagnosis came my breast cancer. As ever, his response to the crisis was positive, ‘It WILL be a good outcome, I am absolutely sure of it. You and I will do it together.’

Like the elephants that go on treks for hundreds of miles to find salt caves I tried to listen to my instincts during treatment. With the start of each chemo cycle my daughter cooked up a wonderful chicken soup, a clear golden broth with poached vegetables swimming in it, very wet and spicey, perfect. A few days later, over the worst of chemo, I craved green, only a piquant salsa verde, loaded with herbs could fix it. It humoured my obliterated tastebuds, reminding them of a life before the drugs regime that hammered them into a memory.

Through the months after treatment I had a nagging lack of energy. Though I’m not a nutrition expert I knew sorting it would help. I was signposted by Mike’s blog with wise advice and lots of links and recommended reading, there were also several illuminating workshops at The Maggie’s Center. The message for a longer healthier life is cut out glucose and stimulants, step up vegetable eating, reduce fruit, increase exercise. Once I knew how to help myself, I made a plan, rearranged my head and it all became easier.

Getting back on track with good nutrition isn’t rocket science, it’s about choosing what you put in your mouth. Rather than mourning what’s gone I wanted to make something new. I’ve always been up for a challenge, it’s a creative process for me. I love cooking, I want foods that are packed with flavour and as many good things in as possible. How exciting to have the adventure of exploring and tinkering with food. I’ve cast my net wide, I search through my piles of cookery books and I scavenge more recipes from friends. Beetroot in rich moist chocolate brownies, yes please.

And it does work, gradually the energy has increased. I’m not pure, there are niggles and falling off the bandwagon is an inevitable part of the process. I might miss the quick energy response of eating a sandwich, but tomatoes and avocados are there, an instant meal packed with serotonin to pull me out of a low moment. I am getting more superfoods in, quick, simple stuff, veg tossed in garlicy chilli oil with a thick dusting of toasted seeds. In the fridge there’s always some cooked pulses to combine with fresh vegetables and make a salad, often there’s a rich bright homemade soup. I’ve stepped up the fish too, I love the moment of taking a fragrant, puffy package of fish and herbs out of the oven.

Ten months on, working on my rehab, life has definitely changed. The thin skin, ridged nails and steroid mooniness have gone. With the return of normality to my bodily functions I constantly marvel at it’s resilience and thank it for bringing me through. My hair is lush, my eyebrows are thickening. This side of cancer, if I develop the Freida Khalo mono brow I might even be delighted. After hating the chemo state of plucked and hairless, the idea of too much of the stuff seems positively giddy and profligate! And another thing worth celebrating, I’ve shed a few pounds thanks to the new nutrition regime.

Most of all, my thanks go to Mike and his lovely wife Chrissy who supported me so wonderfully through the dark times.

Thank you.

It’s a Sportastic Life

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ImageThis time I was planning to write about the nutrition discoveries I’ve made, but it’ll have to wait because I’ve been overwhelmed by an uncharacteristically enthusiastic response to the Olympics. I’ve been swept up in the excitement and really want to be out there taking part in sport again.

It might be a kick arse response to a bit of a health scare I had a few weeks ago. Simon and I sat in the hospital glad we were old hands at the waiting game, we were confident in the knowledge if you’re the last in it doesn’t necessarily mean the news is bad. The GP thought there was a lump on the site of my breast tumour, a flurry of phone calls to the holidaying consultant, he wanted me in hospital immediately, recommending another consultant on the team. The hospital moved fast, there was a hideous feeling they had shifted gear, this could be serious. After all the checks and a four and a half hour wait I was given the all clear, the relief was great. From start to finish everyone was professional and kind, and once again I was reminded the generosity of others is quite overwhelming, thank you.

The visit highlighted my intention to use nutrition and exercise to do everything I can to stay clear of the hospital apart from scheduled routine visits.

All this Olympic cycling past the front door and the crave of wanting a share in their adrenaline rush has inspired me to get back in the gym. During treatment the thrilling memory of a few days mountain biking up 45 degree hills in Turkey amounted to a whole lot of pull. The sense of achievement got me through the inevitable psychological barriers that threw themselves in my path during the long chemo hours and the following days.

This year the yearning has been to have the speed of a road bike but first I had to improve my overall level of fitness. So why was I being so slow? A few things, first there was the utter exhaustion I had on some days, hence the big interest in nutrition. Then, reacquainting myself with my new body. And last? You’ve guessed it, yet again that old chestnut the bra issue.

My new breasts are looking glorious, I wouldn’t usually say things like that but being a maker I applaud good craftsmanship when I see it. Since my operation I’m finding sports bras uncomfortable, they chafe on the scars, half way into a gym session I am desperate to rip it off. So my breasts have come under considerable scrutiny as I get to know them, trying to work out what kind of bra would be most comfortable for sport. The operation incisions are on the breast mound above the natural fold line, the scar is obscured and there’s less chance of being chafed by the bra band.

I have rambled on about the scarcity of comfortable fashionable soft bras on the high street and I’m sure I will again. Imagine my surprise when I found waiting out there is a choice of fashionable unwired sports bras you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be spotted in by the changing room lockers. The lovely Sweaty Betty with bras soft in the right places and a range of such delicious colours. Admittedly after my breast reconstruction and reduction there is going to be more choice, but for larger breasted women hats off to our high street favourite M&S for coming up with a super chic zipped high impact sports bra that even comes in different cup sizes. And can you believe it, all with no wires. So there you are it’s possible, when they have to, they do.

Characteristically my way is to throw myself into things with such enthusiasm that I fail to keep up with the first burst of euphoric energy, slipping down the greasy pole ending up at the bottom along with all the despair that comes with it. I’m trying to be sensible, thinking rehab, easing gently back into sport. There’s been some swimming, a great work out, but my least favourite exercise, is it the open plan changing rooms which don’t go very well with car crash scars. It was great to be taken in hand by Tanya Buck with her Flexible Strength class. Each week I came away knowing my new body better, a great way to find missing muscles that had all but melted away during treatment.

Enjoy the Olympics!

Maggies Centre, Out Of The Ordinary

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Maggies Centre out of the ordinary

For a while my slow recovery was a small price to pay. Back in the real world my energy levels were flat lining. Every time I ran to catch up I’d trip and be viciously spat out of life’s revolving doors, again and again. Whenever I accepted an invitation it was prefixed with the explanation that still a slave to my fluctuating energy levels I was unreliable and at the last minute I might bail on a date. Frustration started to bite and I questioned whether tinkering with my diet would bring a positive outcome.

Changes are part of the personal odyssey, but was I ever going to be that laughing, ebullient lady again? Though I might not completely reclaim my old boundless energy, I didn’t have to loose my enthusiasm for life. True during cancer treatment I had been forced to dig deep, my reserves were depleted.

I started to think that nutrition might be at least part of my personal prescription and the perfect excuse to check out the Maggie’s Centre. At the core of the Maggie’s ethos is the belief environment has a profound effect on our wellbeing. Built on an unpromising strip of land slipped between a busy main road and the car park of Charing Cross Hospital I wanted to know how a sense of calm could be created in such a busy spot.

It’s approached along an informal undulating path that winds its way between tall mature trees, under planted with a rich tapestry of shrubs and plants. The path opens onto a wide piazza lapped with greenery, looked over by the Maggie’s Centre. The building is closed and safe from the hurly burly of the outside world, the only glimpse we are given of the interior is of a peaceful courtyard garden.

Rather than concentrating on the disease, Maggie’s focuses on the wellbeing of the individual, this is the place to access tools to help you to be as good as you can be.

Nutrition is a huge subject and with a cancer diagnosis the detail gets finer. The three full on workshops shine a bright light into the murk surrounding nutrition, it makes access to healthy eating possible for anyone. It was wonderful to sit in a beautiful relaxed environment with my workshop group, eating delicious food, being given inspiring information to help us on our way to make positive diet changes.

Now I have the knowledge to make healthy choices, the changes haven’t been huge, more like tweaks. My energy is increasing, it’s a gradual process, and looking backwards I take delight in clearly seeing the path I have trodden.

Thanks Maggie.

Gratitude

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Fresh start

I love my MAC eyebrow brush.

After their scrape with cancer my eyebrows have grown back slightly moth eaten. As I fill in the gaps between the hairs with my chisel brush, I muse it could be compared to painting by numbers, that’s another first for me, thanks cancer.

This shiny and new thrill of life is constantly stoked by gratitude. There are repeated nagging reminders of where I’ve been. I don’t want lymphedema thinking it can set up camp here, make sure the right arm doesn’t get stressed, carry with my left arm, one armed shopping is slow. The thought of traveling to the States is unthinkable, it would be easier to swim there loaded down with stones in my pockets than contemplate the preposterous insurance premiums.

The news wakes me, in the furure there will be a vaccination for breast cancer. My treatment for the condition will be considered medieval, drastic, destined to be part of the gory history of medicine. Perversely in its existentialist way the experience is something I value highly.

Before I sleep I am crowded with thank yous from the days various experiences. I wake to the knowledge, my body, the complicated machine, has kept on going. Again, my lips are parted as I breathe out, thank you.

I want the safety of the heat of two bodies wrapped together and make my own thick swaddled safe heat, piling my bed with duvets and throws. Mike tells me that sauna is an alternative cancer therapy, I like to think this is my body instinctively doing its thing.

I listen to the tape loop, once more my senses are blotted by the velvet darkness of music. Without asking for help, anonymously, my hand is taken in the black, a moments break from the stress of coping, silently I am guided to the next place. Betrayal is a caustic, scalding pain, sometimes too much to risk asking for help, for hours I sit uncomfortably saving my fading smear of strength to carry me back to the strong arms of home.

STOP! Get back in the moment.

The nurse carefully explains hospital is for the seriously ill. Patients are vulnerable, they are fearful, we must listen, they need kindness. Like a hug, relief washes over, there, I can feel safe, far from the outside familiar, of projections and assumptions.

Cancer free, I celebrate. The metaphorical pruning forced on me, has made good changes. The sifting through the experiences continues. New episodes of life are joined together as I sing, dance, run, jump and twirl, in a rain of cherry blossom petals.

Thank you.

Good Friday

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Good Friday, hot cross buns

With the port removed from my chest earlier this week I am freed from the breast cancer adventure. Good Friday, a simple, bold statement, nothing says it quite as well. Have a happy one!

There was a lump in my right breast about a year ago. Not quite a lump more a piece of torn mozzarella. I felt again and again, sometimes there, sometimes not, only a visit to the doctor would tell me anything.

For so long the flow of bad news came thick and fast, there seemed to be no way of staunching it, the brakes were off, every piece of news was wrapped and cushioned in the consultants’ careful language.

Until I had a treatment plan, top of the priority list was the son getting a stress free crack at his exams. Only a few knew I had cancer until after my birthday, the last thing I wanted was a sympathy fuck of a celebration. I wanted the day as it should be, preserved untainted by cancer, it was everything I could have wished for.

Simon my buddy for my consultant appointments never saw my breasts. He heard only bizarre abstract conversations about them through a curtain, the position of the lumps, their size, the reduction, the nipples, the mounding, rounding, the healing and the texture of the flesh. This all fed my strong sense of the ridiculous, I wanted to laugh as I thought the talk had the flavour of renaissance stories of encarcerated nuns with only a small chink in the wall of their cell to communicate through.

I am looking down at my fingers, they are trying to pick up an almond, they scrabble incompetently, they are not doing it. For a couple of minutes I concentrate very hard on the action. Detached I watch laughing at my baby like graspings, it’s the neuropathy kicking in, though I am willing it with all my might messages don’t always make it to the chemo damaged nerve endings of my finger tips. The frustration of having to cut short chemo, because my hearing and balance were being damaged by the drugs, they were small sacrifices to have a taste of where I am now.

Outside the French windows in the narrow strip of garden I see the perky fresh narcissus nodding in the spring breeze. When chemo was thick, fast and weekly, though dull with crawling exhaustion, the want to have something to look forward to drove me out to plant bulbs. I wanted to smell their sweetness, the anticipated scent of narcissus goaded me on all through those enveloping dark months. The condition became a project, pulling myself through, muttering my mantra in my head. The aim was to get over this hurdle with as much laughter and simple pleasure as possible.

I haven’t been alone, there have been many cheering me on in their own special way. When I was told I had cancer my prayer went up, please let my children be proud of me, and I am very proud of them. I asked my daughter how she felt about moving back home to help me. Her reply illuminated things about me I hadn’t understood. There was no option but to come home, you have always looked after us, you have made so many sacrifices for us, I’ve watched you reject great relationships to be there for us. I owe you big time.

I am reconstructed surgically, my skin and flesh is burnt, my curly hair’s new. There are changes inside as well, I laugh that people cant see that the old inside self has been sloughed off, a husk. With the acceptance of the condition life has taken on a fresh urgency. Mike and I hug each other in a moment of exhilaration and black humour, we have got so far, so many changes, what an adventure, one neither of us wanted but having gone through it would not have chosen to miss.

I feel like a sponge, squashed, depleated, the bounce sqeezed out, I am frustrated it will take time to build up. I am gentler on those around me and myself.

After all these months to have a normal life again is such a treat. While I am sewing seeds, I am looking forward to the changes I will make.

Thank you all for making it possible.

Welcome to C World

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Huh suddenly it's everywhere!

Whenever I look at my reflection an unfamiliar person dodges in front. Who is this diminutive lady bobbing about?

I am mesmerized by her smiley, perky, face. Her skin is peachy and smooth. Her bright green sparkling eyes tell of a sense of fun, I’m intrigued. She has a healthy mop of exuberant bouncy curls. Her clothes, charcoal grey, short wool tunic teamed with Tenniel stripe leggings, ankle boots, and a herring bone tweed jacket, I want to be her friend. Where’s this little glowing person from?

This is me. There’s a ferocious stab of pain as I remember only a couple of short months ago I missed buying a wonderful heirloom hat because I couldn’t bare to be confronted by my baldness in the public glare of a shop when I took off my beret to try it on. I balked at these new curls as they grew back replacing my previously dead straight hair. Such are my outward physical changes. Again and again I’m reacquainted with the facts of life, welcome to c world.

It’s not really about those physical changes but acceptance of the deep psychological shifts that have taken place. Over the past couple of weeks, there’s been much furniture moving in my head, clearing the decks of breast cancer. In bright spring sunshine the architect and I walk over the water meadows, the talk is of acceptance, I want his guidance, he has come to terms with so much. I am shedding the old, becoming the new me. I am building, like a cadis fly, bits assembled from whatever comes my way, driftwood, glass chips, shreds of paper, rags, pot shards, to make a sparkly jewel from the flotsam of life.

Bound together with my kids, we have traveled a slippery route, sometimes one faltering, hand out stretched we steady each other. I am confident in the way they will drag me over any obstacle in our path. And in amongst this sticky, messy, tangle a successful new set of results arrives for the boy. Throughout all this they have both kept their heads clear, aiming for what they want, keeping to their grooves. We have become a beautiful, complex weave. I am a proud mother.

At the day surgery reception the sister is brought to the phone. I understand the language she uses, as the patient on the other end explains about her chemotherapy, they agree to postpone her appointment ‘til May. So recently my story. It feels like a milestone, at last I am well enough for a colonoscopy. My sister is with me, I am ready for anything.

I tell the nurse thanks to chemotherapy I have difficult veins, the can do lady replies she’s the woman for me, as bingo, first try, the cannula slips home.

I am perched in bed, in the regulation gown, cot sides up, reading the paper. The consultant comes in carrying my topply thick file of notes. Taking his cue from me, the atmosphere is relaxed, we could be at a party, his shoulder leans into the wall, in the moment his head cocked. Looks like you’ve had a lot going on, what’s your story Amanda?

Later in the day Simon, my ever ready buddy through this adventure texts me.

I’ve never been so pleased to hear news about a bottom before. Really brilliant. My suggestion is you sit on said bottom for a little longer……couldn’t be more delighted. You have been fab throughout these horrors and deserve some good fortune and fun and adventure.

All clear, relief is a mighty feeling. Thank you.

Learning to Care

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I want to play out

Warning this document contains several graphic Gillian McKeith moments which may be offensive to sensitive readers, while reading you may find the need to avert your eyes.

A fat questionnaire pops through the letterbox from the glorious creator of my new breasts. Once again as I read through the probing questions I am reminded the consultants treating me dare to reach for the stars. Like worker bees they beaver away to give me the best, yes, I feel lucky to be their problem!

In spite of the belt and braces approach the treatment plan is only as strong as the weakest link, things can go wrong. Way back in the historic early days of this winding twisting drama I had an alarming consultation with Mr Bottom Consultant suggesting there’s a possibility I have colon cancer. Days later I had a bummer of a day having it checked out with a botched flexible Sigmoidoscopy. The nurse gave no explanation of procedure for enema, inserting it in without consent. Later in the procedure room there is scant explanation of the process addressed only to my exposed nether regions with close on zero reassurance from the team. In the middle of the unpleasant procedure, me lieing there with much machinery sticking out of my bottom the team couldn’t find the instruments for removal of the polyp they found. Doors opening and closing, much stressed muttering during frantic scrabbling through cupboards, eventually someone goes to collect the necessary from the next door treatment room. A deeply grim experience that inspired no confidence at all.

Ironically, in the months before my breast cancer diagnosis, I feel lucky to have been there with the architect through his colon cancer. It taught me so much, I didn’t think the tool box I assembled during that period would be used so soon and certainly not on myself!

The staff have a direct impact on how you feel during treatment, the wonderful staff on his chemo ward taught and prepared me, they showed me to watch and listen. How to touch, to hug, to withdraw, how the smallest actions can make such a big difference to someones’ day, how the choice of words can have a positive or negative impact, how reassurance and empathy go a very long way to making the experience as stress free as possible.

Since I discovered I still needed a colonoscopy, forever, during this drama I’ve been asking to get on with it. One set back after another follows. Mr Breast Consultant is emphatic as he says, you have been very, very ill, your body has been through so much, you are not strong enough to undergo the procedure.

Just as all I want to do is forget, play out and giggle, tomorrow, months later, I have my appointment for a colonoscopy. I am strong enough, hooray. As the date has moved closer I have noticed the structure I have so carefully been weaving back into my life is no longer knitting together, it’s sagging and wobbling, get back in the moment, stay calm. The mega laxatives do their horrid work and sitting on the loo I promise next time I have such a marathon stint in the smallest room, it will be because I’m on that exotic holiday I have been promising myself.