Beware Dr Google – The dangers of self diagnosis on the web
© Pintail Media
One in four British women has misdiagnosed themselves on the internet – then bought the wrong product in an attempt to cure themselves, a study revealed yesterday.
Researchers found Dr Google is now the first port of call for women with genuine health concerns who are almost twice as likely to check online before consulting a doctor or even talking to Mum. A trend towards trusting the internet over friends, family and medical professionals meant half of the 1,000 women studied would first try to treat an ailment themselves rather than risk embarrassment. But searching their symptoms online and self-medicating has led a tenth of the country’s women to endure unpleasant side effects as a result of their misdiagnosis.
The research, which was commissioned by feminine health brand Balanceactiv found a quarter of British women will trust the internet for advice on treatments if they find their symptoms embarrassing.
Penny McCormick, spokeswoman forBalance Activ said yesterday: ”There is an increasing trend towards using the internet to diagnose any irregularities or worries we have about our bodies.
”The web gives us a wealth of information that can be useful in reducing our worries until we’re able to gain proper advice from a medical authority if it’s needed, but the results show how easy it is to make mistakes when diagnosing ourselves.
”It’s important we learn which information to trust online and that we’re able to make the distinction between what can be self-diagnosed and easily treated, and what definitely requires the help of a medical professional.
“What can seem like a relatively harmless but embarrassing symptom could develop into something more serious so it is important for women to ensure they are asking the right questions and treating certain conditions effectively in the first instance.”
Carving on 15th century font © Pintail Media
The study was carried out to mark National BV Day on 18th April – which aims to raise awareness of Bacterial Vaginosis (BV) – a condition that is almost twice as prevalent as thrush that 2 out of 3 women are misdiagnosing. If left untreated BV has been linked to some serious health implications including an increased risk in contracting STIs, infertility and miscarriage if present during pregnancy. The report also found despite having diagnosed themselves online and decided on a high street treatment, 45 per cent never check they are buying the right thing with a pharmacist or counter staff.
The agonising wait for answers is what drives thirty per cent of women to look for help online, while one in ten hesitate to tell friends or family of any health problems because they don’t want the issue to be ‘made into a fuss’. Tellingly, three quarters of the 1,000 women said there are certain health issues they aren’t comfortable talking to friends and family about. Indeed, women are more likely to trust their own diagnosis when embarrassed by their symptoms – half of the study would always try to deal with the problem themselves before seeking help from others. Over a quarter of respondents dread talking to doctors about anything they are embarrassed about.
Most women had spent a few days worrying over symptoms before speaking to anyone, while a worry-stricken third of the sample had endured at least two weeks sweating over an ailment. Remarkably, one in twenty women said they had spent a number of years worrying a particular symptom was something serious before eventually getting it checked out. Because of waiting times, thirty per cent only visit the doctor as a last resort, while half of the women studied said they would always try all they can to cure themselves and only seek medical advice if the problem didn’t go away.
The symptoms most likely to prompt women to diagnose themselves are problems sleeping, headaches and depression, while muscle pain, itching and fatigue regularly cause women to consult Dr Google. A fifth of women had at some time suspected they had a serious disease – the most common false alarm came over breast cancer, while many women had wrongly diagnosed themselves as having thrush, high blood pressure or asthma.
Skating along Eastbourne promenade © Pintail Media
Penny McCormick, spokeswoman for Balance Activ, continued: “With the resource the internet provides us, it makes sense that women now see this as the first place to consult, especially as they can do so in private.
“However women choose to get advice about their health, being embarrassed by symptoms should never lead to them making a quick or unsupported diagnosis on their own unless they are certain of the quality of the information.
“Worrying symptoms or anything relating to our intimate areas naturally makes it harder to deal with and often leads women to rush to a diagnosis or avoid the issue completely.
“Leaving symptoms untreated, particularly with BV, can lead to serious health implications including an increased risk in contracting STIs, infertility and miscarriage if present during pregnancy.
“That is why we have launched an online symptom checker so women with any health concerns relating to their intimate areas can diagnose themselves accurately to help treat it right.”
Visit www.balanceactiv.com/symptomchecker
TOP 10 MOST COMMONLY MISDIAGNOSED
1. Breast cancer
2. Other forms of cancer
3. Thrush
4. High blood pressure
5. Asthma
6. Arthritis
7. Depression
8. Diabetes
9. Sexual health problems
10. Thyroid problems
Data provided by Balanceactiv to raise awareness of Bacterial Vaginosis Day 18 April 2012.
The Day I Sang at The Albert Hall
Well, me and 3,840 other people!
I’d heard about the huge choirs of amateur singers that sometimes gather at the Albert Hall to sing together, but had never got further than thinking vaguely that it might be nice to join in. It took another member of my local choir to start the ball rolling and whip up some enthusiasm, and eventually tickets were bought for “Messiah From Scratch” in November. It was unfortunate that all four members of our little group then did the same thing – put the tickets aside without checking to find out exactly what was involved – so it was just a few weeks before the date of the concert before we realised that when the organisers called it “From Scratch”, they really meant it. We were to turn up at 6.15pm in order to be ready for the concert to start at 7pm, without even a few minutes in which to warm up, let alone actually practise the music!
At this stage, we had no way of knowing how many people would be singing with us, and therefore how exposed our own singing abilities and knowledge of the music would be. If we’d known then that nearly 4,000 people would be there to sing, we probably wouldn’t have worried so much, but even so, The Messiah isn’t especially easy music to sing and none of us had sung it all the way through for years, if at all. Our first task obviously was to get hold of copies of the musical score, and even this wasn’t simple as the organisers specified the exact version to be used. Here, though, we were very lucky as our local library still had just enough copies left for us to borrow even though Christmas was approaching fast. Recordings of the work then had to be found/bought/borrowed, and our unfortunate families had to suffer the dreadful, dirge-like sound of amateur singers droning their own rather approximate version of Handel’s great work along to a professional recording. All four of our group are contraltos, which means we sing the lower of the two female parts, mainly to provide harmony, so we never get the good tunes. I have to confess that in our household, even the cat found pressing reasons to go out once I and/or my daughter started rehearsing!
By the week before the date of the concert, we were all beginning to wonder why we’d volunteered for this event. Some friends and colleagues were incredulous. “You mean you have to pay in order to sing at the Albert Hall? You don’t get paid to do it?” And no, we don’t get paid, and we do have to pay (£20 for this performance) because this was a charity event, and the proceeds were going to the British Heart Foundation.
An added complication was the dress code. As ever, men got off lightly as they were only required to wear a dark suit, but ladies were requested to look elegant, with sopranos wearing blue, and the contraltos red. None of us had anything red which could remotely be described as “elegant” so several hours had to be spent in going around the shops in the search for red tops to be worn with black skirts or trousers, but eventually we managed to cobble together some respectable outfits, and by 4 pm on the day of the concert we were all dressed up and heading for the station for the trip to South Kensington.
We were in luck; the trains and tubes ran perfectly, and within an hour and a half we were outside the Royal Albert Hall, where people were gathering and chatting enthusiastically. After demolishing the sandwiches which we’d brought with us and paying a quick visit to the Ladies, we made our way to the seats which we’d been allocated, right up in the Circle. Already nervous and a little bit prone to vertigo, I found the steepness of the rake and the height above the main auditorium alarming and for a few minutes was wondering if I’d have to remain sitting for the whole of the performance, but I became acclimatized to it surprisingly soon and began to relax and take in the scene. We’d taken our seats quite early, so were able to watch the other singers gradually arriving and taking up their positions all around the Hall. Lots of people were greeting friends, while others were arriving on their own, clearly content just to be there and to sing. The majority of singers were probably in the middle-aged to mature bracket, but there was a substantial number of young people too. There was also considerable variation in dress. While a lot of women had opted for the safe combination of black bottoms with a red top of some kind, others had made only a minimal gesture towards the dress code with perhaps just a red flower or brooch pinned onto a black T shirt. A few had decided to take the light-hearted approach and were apparently wearing fancy dress, with one rather substantially built young woman happily wearing what looked like the costume of the Red Fairy, complete with frills and red sequins.
By the time we’d arrived at the Royal Albert Hall, it had felt as though we’d travelled quite a long way on a dark winter evening but when Don Monro, the man who had dreamt up The Really Big Chorus in 1974, stood up to speak, he welcomed singers from around the world! Singing alongside us would be singers from Australia, Canada, South Africa and many parts of Europe, so popular have these events become.
His short speech over, the soloists and the conductor, Brian Kay, took their places, and the orchestra struck up the overture. At this point, I noticed a really interesting phenomenon. Up until then all the people I’d been watching, far away on the other side of the hall, had been sitting relaxed in their seats, sometimes bending down to adjust their belongings, sometimes chatting to other singers beside them. But the moment that familiar music started it was if an electric current had passed through them all, or as if an order had been barked out. In an instant, everyone was sitting bolt upright, heads erect, their entire bodies looking alert and ready to sing.
After a beautifully sung aria from the young tenor (“Comfort Ye, My People”) the conductor signalled to singers on the ground floor of the auditorium to stand. It was really at this point that we became aware of how different it would be to sing in such a huge hall with so many other singers. We could see the conductor, but from our position high up in the Circle, he was just a tiny figure far below, and when we lifted our music to sing, he became invisible behind it! Instead of relying on him for cues as to when to come in, when to slow down, and all the other more subtle variations in the performance, we’d be dependent on hearing other voices singing our part in other areas of the auditorium, the singers who were much closer to the conductor and could therefore follow his directions.
I think it’s fair to say that the first few choruses were a little bit ragged, while the singers gradually got used to the acoustics. At one point, I could see the conductor frantically signalling to the huge mass of sopranos to sing more quickly, but, however distinguished and able he may be, it’s a brave man who takes on a thousand sopranos alone, and very wisely he deferred to their group judgement and allowed the choir to find its own pace. Before very long, our little group had relaxed in the knowledge that any musical mistake we might make would be lost in the huge volume of sound being produced by so many singers.
One of the delights of singing with these big choirs at the RAH is being able to watch and listen to the soloists. For this performance, the soloists were all very young singers in training for professional careers, and to me at least their extreme youth added poignancy to the music.
Our position in the Circle meant that we were well placed to make a dash in the interval to the bar, so by the time the second half began and our gin/vodka’s were taking effect, we were feeling quite comfortable and ready to tackle the remaining choruses with enthusiasm. By now, the choir was (almost) singing as one, so that by the time we reached the famous Hallelujah Chorus, I think we produced a very creditable performance. Knowing that our audience would all have been eagerly anticipating this most famous of all choruses probably tipped the tension rates up a notch, and I think we all gave it all we’d got. It certainly got a rapturous reception from the audience! Many people think that the Hallelujah chorus is the final part of the Messiah but in fact there are more arias to follow, before the last chorus “Worthy is the Lamb” leading into the final section known as the Amen chorus. This is a far more sombre and spiritual chorus, and I felt that the huge choir sang it with a surprising amount of sensitivity and feeling, perhaps aided by the knowledge that this marked the end of the occasion.
Discussion of the evening had to be postponed until we’d accomplished the journey back to the railway station, but, once on the homeward-bound train, we shared our thoughts. My daughter and I agreed that we hadn’t experienced the huge rush of emotion felt by a lot of singers, which was a surprise and a bit of a disappointment, but I suspect that this was due to our position in the Hall. Because we were so high up, the sound of the rest of the choir was coming to us almost as if we were listening to a recording, whereas I think that if we’d been seated downstairs in the main auditorium we’d have been far more aware of being part of a huge group of singers. We agreed that it was only towards the end of the concert that we’d really relaxed and enjoyed ourselves, so we’re all keen to have another go before too long. It was clear from the joy and sense of achievement on some of the faces around us that taking part in this event means a huge amount to many people and I suspect that like them, we’re already hooked and will be booking our places for the next big chorus. This time though we won’t get so stressed about our musical abilities (or lack of them) as all we need to do is relax and prepare to enjoy ourselves and let the music and the other singers scoop us up and carry us along with them.
Contributing Author: Janet Hamer
For more information about how The Really Big Chorus began, and how to get tickets, the website to go to is www.trbc.co.uk
Anyone for a Swim?
Am I the only woman to be deterred from all the benefits conferred by swimming by the sheer horrors awaiting me in the changing rooms?
When my six year old daughter managed to dry and dress herself more quickly than I did, I realised I was a slow-starter in certain organisational skills. And she even managed to dry between her toes! I’ve never found the time to do that. More than twenty years later -and she’s still watching me with a pitying eye as I struggle to get myself in a state fit to be seen in public after a visit to our local pool.
The problems begin even before the swim. I’ve now got the hang of my new swimming costume after two false starts when I first managed to put it on back to front, and then sideways. (I still don’t quite know how I managed that, but it was certainly an interesting look and worth consideration for next year’s London Fashion Week) So, there I am, costume on, towel tossed over shoulder, hat, goggles and earplugs clutched in one hand, leaving the other to carry everything else to the locker. Coat, scarf, boots, socks, jeans ….well, you can work out the rest, plus a large bag for carrying my swimming kit, and my handbag with money, keys, etc are all to be carried in one hand and fitted into this small space at ground level. Taking tiny steps on the slippery tiled floor, I progress at a snail’s pace but sadly without the snail’s self-contained house, leaving a trail of garments on the floor and watched with bemusement by a couple of sylphlike teenagers.
At last at the lockers, I try to think it all through logically. I open the door, stand sideways on so as to prop it open with my leg, but then realise I can’t bend in that position in order to put things into the locker as I’m facing in the wrong direction. By this stage most of what I’m still carrying is falling from my grasp, so I twist round and with a great heave hurl the rest into the locker, remembering too late that my glasses are among them. Now to retrieve the items I’ve dropped – but I daren’t leave my handbag behind while I do that, and my handbag is underneath all the stuff I’ve just crammed into the locker. I bend down to fish it out, and discover that the twisting and hurling has set off my back problem. Clutching my bag, I retrace my steps even more slowly now that my back is hurting, collect my belongings, return to the locker and stow everything away more neatly, slamming the door closed before everything falls out. Then I remember that I need a pound coin to lock the door, and the pound is in my handbag and my handbag has just been packed away at the bottom of the locker. Starting now to feel just a bit impatient, I tear everything out onto the floor, and extract the pound coin before piling everything back in, noting as I do so that most of my clothes are now wet due to the puddles of water on the floor which unfortunately I hadn’t noticed before.
Locker locked, all I now have to do is put on my swimming hat and that’s when I realise that I’ve thrown my hat and goggles into the locker along with everything else. Gritting my teeth I open the locker, yank out the missing items, and shut it again, before pausing for a moment to fasten onto my wrist the plastic wrist-strap holding the locker key. I say “for a moment” when what I actually mean is “for at least five minutes” as these things were never intended to be fastened with just one hand as they’re entirely rigid and therefore can’t be wrapped closely around the wrist without some pressure being applied. I brace my wrist against my knee, against the wall, and finally against the slatted seats – which involves kneeling sideways on the floor beside them, watched this time with concern by several small children.
My actual swim takes about ten minutes, since by now I am feeling exhausted. Sure that I’m being observed with scorn by all the regulars as they speed up and down the lanes, I creep away from the water and head for the showers. I hang my towel on the hook helpfully positioned on the back of the door, turn on the water and discover that I’ve brought with me the tube of body lotion rather than the matching shower gel. Never mind, I can at least rinse off the chlorine with plentiful hot water, which is fine until I realise that the hook can’t have been intended for towels as mine is now thoroughly soaked. Avoiding pitying glances as I shuffle back to my locker wrapped in a dripping towel, I open the door but am not quick enough to prevent the contents hurling themselves onto the floor again. Bit by bit I pick them up and clutch them to my soaking bosom before beginning the return journey to the cubicle.
Here, in a space which seems somehow to have shrunk in the past fifteen minutes, I fumble among my possessions for the body lotion and talc as there’s no point in trying to dry myself with a wet towel. Retrieving the lotion with triumph, I start to apply it to my limbs before stopping to puzzle over the apparent bubbles forming. Then I remember that this must be the shower gel that I’m carefully spreading over myself. I have a go with the towel to get rid of it, then shake on some talc in an attempt to soak up the water. Big mistake as now I have a sort of thick paste on my legs. At this point I might perhaps be moaning a little as I retrieve my pants and struggle to get them over my encrusted thighs. Worse is to come with jeans, a close fit at the best of times.
Eventually the horror comes to an end, and I sidle through the changing rooms to the exit. On all sides are women wrapped in clean dry towels, their hair swaddled in yet more clean towels, or fully dressed in dry clothes, carefully renewing their makeup and blow-drying their hair at the mirrors. I catch sight of myself as I scuttle past, hair wet and plastered to my skull, skin red and blotchy from the chlorine, eyes even redder as I never did find my goggles again, clothes looking as if they’d just been dragged from the dirty washing basket before being left out in a storm.
How does everyone else do it all so easily? And why can’t I?
Contributing author: Janet Hamer
Seeing Double – Was I a Twin?
This is the story of Althea Hayton, a counsellor from St Albans who, after many years of soul-searching, had come to the conclusion that she had shared the womb for part of the time with a twin. She discovered me over the internet, because she knew that talking therapies could not access the areas of her life that were pre-verbal, pre-birth. And indeed my approach, myth-a-drama, enabled her to not only to heal this issue, but as a result of that experience, she found her life work.
This is her story.
“It started with the insight that I may have once been a twin, and that was why so many tiny details about my life that had always puzzled me, were always on my mind. I was very concerned with the life of the unborn child, thought a lot about death and dying and was never happier than when I was with one other person engaged in deep intense conversation at an empathetic level.”
She took part in a nine month programme I offered, the Ritual Theatre Group, and as a result was able to re-experience being small, being angry and very powerful in that anger. About half way through the programme, and after much planning, she created a special ritual to release her lost twin.
She claims that “there has never been a more intensely emotional, cathartic and cleansing experience in my whole life than that day”.
Unable to function normally for some days as she planned the ritual, she planned every detail. Every day for two weeks before the day, she wore a chiffon turquoise scarf that she loved and had bought for herself – for her, turquoise is the colour of dreams. She also took up a wide beige Indian cotton and made that ready, with some white card labels with ideas – ‘strength’, ‘dreams’ and ‘creativity’ written on them – to hang about the necks of the other group members.
A special ritual about the lost twin
She thought for a long time about music, then picked her favourite piece part of Bach’s Double Violin concerto. With a blindfold from a plane trip, a shallow meat tin and some matches, she was ready. The ritual, although involving other group members slightly, was a very personal thing. She sat inside a womb shape on the floor made with cloth, barefoot and blindfolded with the two scarves. One of the group members was nominated by the group to touch her gently from time to time – in the darkness of the womb, she was there with the tiny companion known only by touch.
The music played until, suddenly, the group made a terrible noise with percussion instruments – the catastrophe that took her brother away. She reached out, taking control, touching them one by one to make them quiet, in order to heal a sense of helplessness that had haunted her all her life. In the silence, the violin concerto played on. She stepped out of the womb and took off the blindfold, putting labels on group members to represent the gifts that her little companion had left. That didn’t work very well – she had to do this alone.
So to the strains of the music, she danced with the two scarves. As the music faded to silence, she came to the meat tin on the floor that contained a painting she had done of Kali, representing her negative anger, vengefulness and destructive power. She tore the picture into pieces but kissed every piece, forgiving and accepting all the negative qualities. Then placing the pieces back in the tin and covering them with the scarf, she carried it outside and set fire to it.
Later, she tipped the ash in the dustbin – they no longer had any power over her. Later, at home and still stunned by the experience, she knew that a final act of letting go was required. In a cleansing ritual, she gathered up the piles of papers she had accumulated over the previous twenty years about the unborn child, putting then into a black sack for recycling. Now, finally after more than fifty years, she has found peace.
She says: Since that amazing day, which has allowed me to put actions and images to a vague sense of something that had haunted me all my life, I have not looked back. I entered into a totally new phase of my life with ever rising energy and increasing focus. Within two years I had walked enough of my healing path to a point where I was ready for action. What happened was way beyond my expectations! I decided to write about womb twin survivors in 2002 and have since then created two anthologies of articles and stories about womb twin survivors and a major work detailing my eight year Womb Twin research project.
In 2007 I set up a non-profit organisation to help womb twin survivors and I now give seminars and workshops for womb twin survivors in various countries. Without that wonderful opportunity to express in the Ritual Theatre Group the grief and despair that had been within me all my life and say a loving farewell to my twin brother, many hundreds of womb twin survivors would not have been helped in the way they have. I didn’t know I had it in me, but myth-a-drama helped me to set it free.
Althea’s story will be featured in the book I am currently editing Ritual Theatre: Theatre of Healing to be published by Jessica Kingsley later this year in which I describe how I have helped hundreds of people like Althea heal issues that nothing else would work for. Most of my clients feel blocked, that some part of them is locked away. Myth-a-drama is based on drama therapy and brings together the healing power of drama and myth. It works for many reasons and enables participants to work directly with the unconscious patterns deeply buried within then. But most importantly it is enormous fun, and the fun aspect is why it is so accessible, liberating and enjoyable.
Guest Contributor: Claire Schrader
claire@makingmoves.net
Web Links
www.makingmoves.net
http://www.wombtwinsurvivors.com
For details of Althea’s new book “WOMB TWIN SURVIVORS: the lost twin in the Dream of the Womb” published in March 2011 go to http://www.altheahayton.com/wren/womb-twin-surviv.html
The Day I Won, and Again, and Again, and Again, and Again, and Again!
Eating al fresco, Languedoc Roussilion in October
I knew we were low on wine, in fact only a couple of bottles of rose cava which we usually only drink on special occasions, were loitering on the shelf. So I thought I would have another look at the Virgin Wine website where I had ordered a case of mixed white wines earlier in the year. Although my husband had sniffed at the absence of corks we rather liked the selection and they were drunk enthusiastically.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am most definitely not a wine connoisseur, I’m unable to tell one grape from another. However I have made wine over a period of more than 35 years with various ingredients, from potato to sultana, from peach to raspberry and also our own grapes grown in the garden, so I have a certain tolerance/experience of unusual/different flavours.
With wines conventionally made from grapes I know what I like the taste of and it is quite a range, but I always enjoy Chardonnay and Merlot, without always looking at the label. So looking at the Virgin Wine website I was interested to see what was on offer in their Auction section.
Wine tasting session
Several cases of really interesting mixes and bids were quite low. The bidding works like e-Bay, so I put some bids in and noticed the bidding increased as the time ran out, and I didn’t win any.
I decided then to place a fixed bid overall on eight different auctions running at the same time and watch how things went. The strategy worked … rather too well actually. Within a few minutes of the auctions closing I received an email telling me I had won one auction, then another, and another, and another, and another, and another. Six in all! I was breathless with surprise. I felt a bit like the sorcerer’s apprentice in the Disney film, they wouldn’t stop coming.
Although I was pleased my strategy had worked, how on earth would I explain this ‘success’ to my ever loving husband? I really hadn’t expected to win any actually, the bidding was quite fast towards the end and I couldn’t tell whether mine had been successful. I knew the auction conditions do not allow cancellation of bids, so six cases of wine were instantly winging their way to me. I decided to send him an email, much easier to explain the finer details than face to face explanation – no I’m not a coward, but he is profoundly deaf and all that entails …
Darling Good news, I have ‘won’ several Virgin wine auctions, average price £4.0729 a bottle. The bad news is we will have to find enough space as I have been rather more successful than I expected … Good news also, we won’t have to buy any wine for a few months … Just don’t be surprised when several boxes arrive … L/Kate, your rather too successful wine auction bidder!!!
I received what I thought was a fantastic reply:
We could ask the family to look after the excess. Well done!
Decanting red wine of any origin always improves it
How supportive is that? Actually I wouldn’t trust the family to look after the excess … too much of a temptation, so we will be finding space in the garage. I wonder whether I would be just as successful again … reluctantly I have given myself a six month ban before I have another go. The Virgin Wines promise of a refund if you don’t like the wine was very reassuring. I hope we like all the wines, but realistically there may well be some we don’t, in which case it will be interesting to see how the system works. One bonus that popped into my mind, with the cost of the cases being so reasonable we might consider giving some as Christmas presents, but then again … www.virginwines.co.uk/auctions
Kate Campbell
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Vet’s Receptionist – In charge of a rabbit!
June - www.orangeturtleblog.com
Along with other diverse and mostly unsuccessful jobs, I once held the position of receptionist in a local veterinary clinic. Two months into the job, my experiences had been limited to the care of cats and dogs, and I’d been feeling on fairly safe ground. This state of comparative complacency was soon to end, with the arrival of my first rabbit patient, and my introduction to the disturbing world of rabbits.
In my extreme youth, my acquaintance with rabbits was strictly limited. I usually met up with them after they had been casseroled with onions and carrots so knew little about their habits and hobbies, but I was also aware of a different breed which had been singled out for its unusually soft and fluffy fur. This type we didn’t eat; instead we wore its fur, often dyed pale pink or blue and knitted into tiny cardigans to be worn on special occasions, such as birthday parties. So it was that my first real encounter found me woefully unprepared for the hazards involved in rearing a domestic rabbit.
The owners of this particular pet – a charming lady with two young children – brought in their charge in a cardboard carrying case. I was relieved to hear that Bunny was full of verve and vitality, but this was in fact at the heart of the problem. Bunny was a red-blooded male, and was proving to be too much for his fellow male rabbit with whom it had been expected that he would live in close harmony. His owner, glancing briefly at the children, seemed reluctant to enter into details, but eventually I heard the word ‘castration’, so I presume that some very un-Beatrice Potter type behaviour had been observed, and that this radical step was being proposed to protect the sensitivity of his fellow rabbit.
Lop Rabbit - www.apbc.org.uk
One of the children, with a catch in her throat, asked about the risks involved in this operation. I, expecting from the vet the response ‘Oh, almost none’ that was routine for cats and dogs undergoing similar surgery, was shocked and alarmed to hear the vet tell her that general anaesthetics for rabbits are generally regarded as really bad news, and that they have a disturbing tendency to react by turning their toes up. Both children turned white, but the situation at home appeared to be serious enough to warrant risking Bunny’s neck in this way, and an appointment was made for the following day.
Though doubtless sympathetic, you are probably a little vague as to why I was so concerned, so I must explain the procedure on days on which an operation was performed. At the end of the morning consultation period the vet would go into surgical mode, which usually meant a fourth cup of coffee and the donning of yet another unattractive garment before disappearing into the theatre. When the deed had been done, both vet and nurse would rush off – notionally to work at another branch but frequently to catch up on the latest fashion to arrive at the local factory outlet – leaving the receptionist to clear up after them, and to keep an eye on the recovering animal. When it was a cat there was no problem. Cats are sensible creatures and not given to histrionics, so the occasional ‘There, there’ accompanied by an attempt to stroke them through the bars of the cage usually met with approval, and sometimes quite an enjoyable working relationship could be struck up. Dogs are all wimps, and lie huddled in a corner trembling and sighing and clearly convinced that their days are numbered, but can sometimes be heartened by being addressed briskly by name. All animals, as they gradually recover and remember that their last meal was yesterday evening, seem to think it the height of bad manners for me to eat my tuna sandwich in front of them, and occasionally tears will come to their eyes, but I’ve learnt not to be too concerned. Working in a vets’, you learn to eat when you can – postponing a meal for reasons of tact can result in having to gulp it down later in the day when some poor creature is being given an enema only a few feet away.
www.petwebsite.com
I had been happy to be left in charge of dogs and cats, in the knowledge that almost invariably they would recover and could be returned to their owners with great excitement and joy. It looked as if it might be quite different though for rabbits, and certainly Bunny’s family were thinking along the same lines to judge from their demeanour when they brought him in the following morning. There were tears in their eyes as they handed him over to me, saying ‘Please take great care of him – we’d be devastated if anything went wrong!’ Horribly aware that Bunny was going to be left in my sole care after the op, I made a final attempt to secure a reprieve for him, but his owner was adamant..
Bunny was duly settled in a cage to await operation time, and retreated to the back, trembling and gazing out with big, sad eyes. I retreated to the other side of the room and tried to avoid eye contact, just in case my feelings of doom might be transmitted and affect his chances of recovery. While the nurse was setting up the theatre, I thought I’d better adopt a more pro-active approach and ask the vet for more background information about rabbits. More bad news followed as I learnt that, apart from their tendency to overreact when faced with anaesthetics, rabbits have to eat constantly and go into a speedy decline if they don’t. Not for them the usual 12 hour fast, no, they are encouraged to keep putting it away right up to the vital moment, and to resume munching the instant they come round (if they come round!).
Being of a fairly squeamish disposition, and also keen to get my lunch before being compelled to face my responsibilities, I left the theatre, and tried to concentrate really hard on my other duties, such as beating my previous record at Solitaire. Only too soon though I heard sounds of Bunny being returned to his cage, and of the others preparing to leave the premises.
Keen to show my willingness to face a challenge, I hurried out to catch the vet and press her for more detailed instructions on the care of Bunny, who was now all mine for the next four hours. In what I thought was a callously offhand manner she replied ‘Oh, just keep him stimulated’ before disappearing out of the door and into her car.
‘Keep him stimulated?’ I muttered to myself as I observed Bunny. There seemed little scope for that at the moment as he was prostrate on the floor of the cage, doing a reasonable impression of a very dead rabbit, but he surely couldn’t have lost the heart to struggle on in the last couple of minutes? Advancing a little nearer I was relieved to see some evidence of breathing, and, heartened by this small triumph, I returned to my desk to consider how best to stimulate a rabbit.
Clearly the playing of games was a non-starter, for which I was very relieved. I reviewed my small repertoire of jokes, but found a surprising number of them began ‘A rabbit went into a bar’, so were probably intended for quite a different audience. Should I try singing to him, perhaps? Or maybe he’d appreciate a story being read to him?
With a shock I realised that I’d been pondering on this dilemma for some twenty minutes, during which Bunny might have given up all hope. With a rapidly beating heart I returned to his cage, but thankfully there were still unmistakeable signs of life. No one could have called him animated but at least he was now the right way up though showing no signs of getting to his feet and making for his lunch. Uneasily I reflected that it must now be around three hours since he’d last eaten – for how much longer could he survive?
Clearly stimulation was the thing. Still with no clear idea of what form this might take I edged closer to his cage, and to my consternation saw Bunny react with obvious terror, backing as far as he could into the corner furthest from his food. I reversed out of the room, but dared not leave him for long in case fear pushed him over the edge while I wasn’t there to look after him. The image of his stricken family appeared before me, and I could almost hear the recriminations. Could I live with myself if I allowed this poor Bunny to die in my care? The responsibility weighed very heavily on me (though actually that might have been partly the really huge baguette I’d had for lunch).
Again I peered around the door. Still alive, still a long way away from his food bowl, and still trembling. What a quandary! How could I stimulate an animal who almost passed out with fright whenever I got within ten feet of his cage? The situation became almost farcical as I spent the next half hour alternately retreating from the room, then, bent double, creeping back in, just far enough for him to see me, but not close enough to strike terror into his little heart. It might perhaps have looked a little odd, but at least I felt that I was doing something constructive. Certainly he was managing to cling to life, but still not a stalk had passed his lips. How could I explain this to his family, those poor children? How would it affect them? Would they no longer trust anyone, play truant from school, and wind up living in doorways in London all because of the trauma of losing a dear one?
I could stand the responsibility no longer. With a shaking hand I dialled our other branch, and to my relief it was answered by a nurse with years of experience. She of all people would know what to do.
‘This rabbit,’ I said, ‘I’m making no progress with him. He never stops trembling and hasn’t eaten for hours!!’ I could hear my voice sounding hysterical. ‘What can I do? I’ve tried everything I can think of!’
Gentle and reassuring she replied ‘Is he upright?’
I dashed over to have another look, risking another fit of the wobblies by Bunny.
‘Yes, but he’s not walking and he’s not eaten a thing and he has to keep eating or he’ll die!’
‘Oh, he’ll be alright, as long as he’s upright he’ll be alright now,’ she replied, ‘he’ll start eating again when he’s ready’.
‘But I was told I had to stimulate him to keep him alive?’
Her only reply was to collapse into waves of laughter, and I put the phone down.
A little later when the vet returned I met her at the doorway.
‘He’s OK!’ I said. ‘He’s still alive!’
‘Who?’ she said, walking past me and putting on the kettle. ‘Hey, look at this Armani dress I got, for less than a third of the real price!’
My responsibilities over for the day, it was time for me to go home. I took a last look at Bunny. Still he crouched in the corner of his cage, his food untouched, but he’d stopped trembling and his eyes – calm, clear and bright – met mine. Bunny was absolutely fine, it seemed, but someone had been making a monkey out of me.
Call The Midwife author, Jennifer Worth’s Fight with Eczema
Jennifer Worth, author of Call the Midwife – currently a hugely successful TV series – sadly died just before filming began in 2011.
Some seven years previously she had contacted me offering a feature about the severe eczema she had developed at the age of fifty five and her efforts to relieve it.
The first line was startling: Severe eczema doesn’t kill you; it just drives you insane.
Written in much the same style as her books the feature chronicles the development and relief of the eczema she experienced.
Jennifer Worth at the worst of her eczema
I developed eczema for the first time when I was fifty five. Within three short months two tiny patches of eczema on my legs had spread to cover my entire body. It is the itching that drives you mad. I would scratch the whole night long until I drew blood, then it would begin to hurt, but the pain was infinitely preferable to the itching.
Dermatologists could only offer steroids. These helped a little, but the itch came back worse than ever afterwards. I was in despair, until I happened to eat a Chinese meal, which gave me food poisoning and I did not eat for four days. During that time my eczema virtually cleared up. When I started eating again it came back. The cause was obvious – food allergy.
The dermatologists told me it was coincidence, as in their view there was no connection between food and eczema. But I was not convinced and searched every path for the offending foods – with no success. Let me say here that most people fail if they try to identify food allergies alone. It is too complex for the layman and you need an allergy specialist, a qualified nutritionist or at least a reputable book to follow.
Eczema on Jennifer's arms
I was fortunate in finding the right specialist, who guided me through a strict elimination diet. Once we had found the right diet, my skin cleared within three weeks. Then he led me through the challenge/reintroduction phase of the diet, which was very difficult and troubled by many pitfalls. After about six months, my skin was completely clear and I felt wonderful. Incidentally a side effect of an elimination diet is a surge of good health. Eliminating dairy products, gluten, yeast, sugars and chemical additives from your body can only be beneficial. We all eat the wrong things and suffer for it.
My specialist advised me to have a course of Enzyme Potentiated Desensitisation (EPD) because, he told me new allergies would develop. I have had EPD – see below – twice a year for nearly ten years and my skin remains perfect, for which I thank God every day of my life.
Clear of eczema
The charity Action Against Allergy asked me to write a book about my experiences detailing the elimination diet given me by my specialist. I was asked for this because there is so little information available on this subject. My book Eczema and Food Allergy was published in 1997 and featured in the Nursing Times, the Sunday Telegraph and the magazine Here’s Health. It sold out of two editions and last year they decided to republish online – see below.
This is a very controversial subject. Doctors, dieticians and even the National Eczema Society will state that eczema is not connected to food. But I have proved that it is.
Jennifer after treatment
In this article, I have deliberately refrained from giving any advice to eczema sufferers about diet. It would be rash and irresponsible for me to do so, because the subject is far too complex for a short article. But my book contains all the details necessary for a successful elimination diet and includes many addresses for specialist treatment. My heart goes out to anyone afflicted with severe eczema. I know the suffering involved and it is beyond description. If my experience can be of help to anyone, I am well pleased.
Many people have asked me what EPD is; how does it work, where can you get it, and what does it cost? It is a very subtle and complex medical process, and I give below a brief summary of what it is about.
Enzyme Potentiated Desensitisation is a form of immunotherapy developed by Dr. L. M. McEwen in the 1960s and now used worldwide. It has the potential to desensitise anyone to the allergens to which they are allergic. This includes foods, dust, animals, birds, grasses, pollens, moulds, and many chemicals. An ultra-low dose of allergen is used – approximately 1/1000 part of a routine skin-prick test – combined with the natural enzyme beta-glucuronidase which enhances, or potentiates the desensitisation process (thus we get the rather curious name). It is particularly effective for the treatment of eczema, and will work quickly for children – the younger the child the quicker it will work. It takes about 2-5 years to be effective for an adult.
EPD is only available on the NHS at the Royal Homeopathic Hospital (60 Great Ormond Street, London W1N 3HR). Dr Michael Jenkins, Consultant Allergist will see patients via a referral from their GP. EPD has a ‘Specials’ licence. This means it is accessible only to suitably accredited doctors to supply on a ‘named’ patient basis. The doctor must be a qualified MD trained in allergies, and who is specially trained to hold a licence to administer EPD.
There are about twenty such doctors in the country, and their names and addresses can be obtained from the British Society of Allergy and Environmental Medicine, PO Box No. 7, Knighton LD7 1WT Phone: 01547 550378; Web site: www.bsaenm.org.uk. This is a charity which will give you the address of your nearest medical practitioner of both EPD and Neutralisation. An adult course of EPD, lasting about five years, will cost around £2000, but far less for a child. This may seem a lot, but, believe me, EPD is worth a second mortgage.
In my book ‘Eczema and Food Allergy’ I devote two chapters to EPD, which gives far more detail than I can give here.
Eczema and Food Allergy is available in print from Merton Books www.mertonbooks.co.uk
Jennifer Worth, born 25 September 1935 died 31 May 2011, was a nurse, midwife and ward sister from 1954-1973.
Her book Call the Midwife about her years as a district midwife in the slums of London’s East End is published by Orion Books There is an interview with Jennifer talking to Danuta Kean about writing her books on that web page.
Two more books Shadows of the Workhouse and Farewell to the East End make up a trilogy. All three books have sold almost a million copies and stimulated a publishing subgenre of nostalgic true life stories.
You can watch a short video interview where she talks about her nursing career and working with the nuns in the East End of London.
Val Reynolds Brown, Editor
Love and Loss – Winnie and Claire Part
Winnie
Winnie’s Woes Written from Winnie’s point of view
I really enjoyed the walk we went on yesterday, it was so lovely going out in the snow, the hill looked really pretty and everything smelled so different!
Oh, we’re going out again – yay. Hope it’s a nice walk.
Oh, my bed and bowls are coming, that must mean we’re going away somewhere for the night – how exciting! Off we go.
We must be here already. I wonder where we are, it seems familiar somehow … I can smell dogs – lots of other dogs!
Hello hello, nice lady. Let me in, I can smell lots of dogs here. Where am I? Ah, she’s making a nice fuss of me. And Claire seems to know her well. I do kind of remember this place but I don’t know why. They’re letting me into the back room – my goodness so many dog beds. Who do these belong to? They all smell so nice, and they look comfy. Where does this go? An outside door, I can hear dogs the other side! Wait, where has Claire gone? The lady is back, great she’s letting me out into the garden. Hello dogs! Yes, I am very friendly and so are all of you! And you all look like me! If Claire were here it would be perfect. I must be here on holiday or something. It’s so much fun being with the other dogs.
Claire takes over the story:
This day was one of the hardest of my life. Giving my dog up after five happy years together was a heart wrenching decision to come to and even harder to carry out. After I dropped her at Pat’s, I cried for about three days. My beautiful little daughter Anna, kept me going but even now, years later I still miss Winnie.
I’d bought Winnie as a puppy from Pat, she had the most beautiful temperament right from the off. A gregarious, fun loving dog who always thought everyone was her friend and should love her as much as she loved them!
I loved the outdoors and going out for long walks together with Anna in the back carrier. You couldn’t wear Winnie out, she would happily keep walking as long as you could keep going. Over time, things started to get harder with Winnie. She needed a lot of exercise and thrived being in company. I was living alone with my then 2 year old daughter and was having to work almost full time to ensure I had enough money coming in to support us.
I started off by taking Winnie to work, but that was difficult to manage. Then I organised for a walker to come in and spend time with her each day, but the costs mounted up and I also had to put her into kennels whenever we went over to France to visit my parents. I felt increasingly bad about poor Winnie, such a sweet natured dog who just wanted to be outdoors and spend time with people, I was worried she was becoming stressed.
I decided that I had to put her first after a long and upsetting conversation with my sister in law. She’d had to give up her two little dogs after moving to London so knew what it was like, but you can’t selfishly keep a dog when you can’t be with them all day, especially one like Winnie who was so clearly at her happiest in company.
Winnie also reacted badly to a tantrum Anna had, shaking and putting her tail between her legs. Although she’d always loved Anna, now Anna was finding her voice, Winnie wasn’t so happy about the racket! So I contacted Pat to ask her advice about Winnie. Together we decided that it would be best for Winnie to go, and Pat said she would love to have her back.
Within days I was at Pat’s house, dropping Winnie off. At the time it all seemed alarmingly quick, but there didn’t seem any point in delaying and actually it was better to get it over with. I knew I’d made the right decision when I arrived and saw Winnie go into Pat’s house as if she was coming home!
Pat and I have kept in touch over the last few years and I’ve taken Winnie out for walks and been to Pat to meet Winnie’s puppies. It’s been lovely to see her so happy and content and she’s made a brilliant mum, bringing into the world more wonderful dogs to make more people happy. It really couldn’t have worked out better, although I still miss her so much and I often wish I could have her back! Pat has always kindly kept it open so if I was in a position to, Winnie could come home. Unfortunately for me, it hasn’t worked out that way, but for Winnie it’s all worked out perfectly.
This month, Winnie goes into retirement. She raised her last litter of puppies and is now moving on to live with a lady who’s other dog (another one of Pat’s!)is getting old. Winnie will make another person very happy, and that is something to be thankful for.
BREEDER’S ADVICE:
Winnie, a wonderful mother
As a responsible breeder I always take back any puppies/adults who can no longer stay with their original owners. Some reasons (as in Winnie’s case) are genuine – others, quite frankly, are frivolous. One puppy was returned because she kept eating their daughter’s underwear! Another because she pooed too much! A third because she wouldn’t retrieve a tennis ball. Can you believe it?
However, when Winnie arrived it soon became obvious that she would just have to stay. She is so lovely to look at and her temperament second to none. Winnie loved the other dogs and they happily accepted her.
Claire and I discussed breeding from Winnie and Claire felt she would make a lovely mother – she was right. However, before breeding could be considered Winnie needed to have her eyes checked, her hips X-Rayed and her elbows as well. All those tests came back with excellent results and we were good to go. Winnie has now had three litters and her breeding days are over. She made THE best mother, not only to her own puppies, but to all puppies born here – as the photo shows. These are not Winnie’s puppies, but their own mother was fed up with them.
Winnie now has one more good deed to do. My good friend Christine is a very fit 70 year old and her present Golden Retriever is 14 years old. As the inevitable is just around the corner, Winnie is going to live with Christine to help her through something that she is already dreading. I’m sure Winnie’s endless supply of love and fun will help a lonely lady when the sad time comes. Winnie will live out her days with Christine, who will return her devotion ten fold.
Puppy Problems Solved 5: Winnie’s friend Henry learns not to eat stones
Winnie
Written from Winnie’s point of view
Ooh, was that the doorbell? I’d better go and see who it might be …
If I press my nose up against the glass like this I can almost see through. Looks like two people, and wait, I know that shape – it looks like my best friend Henry, the Labrador!
Ah, Claire, I’m so excited, hurry up and open the door!
Winnie, calm down, I can’t open the door if you’re pressed up against it. Get down girl …
Henry!!!!!!
Henry, Henry, Henry. I’m so pleased to see you. Let me chew your ear for a minute, no, I need to jump on you, oh I’m so pleased to see you!
Oh Winnie, you have to calm down, ouch, that hurts!
Blah blah blah, Henry’s a bit poorly, blah blah blah. Be careful Winnie …
Don’t send me to my basket Claire. I just want to see Henry, we usually play this rough, what’s different?
Henry, what’s up, why won’t they let us play like normal?
Oh, Winnie, it’s been awful. I’ve been so ill. Be gentle, I’ve got a poorly side.
Don’t look sad Henry. Sorry if I hurt you, I didn’t know you were ill.
I’ve been very ill – and in so much pain. I had to go the doggy hospital and everything!
Oh no, not the doggy hospital! Oh Henry, what happened?
I’ve been very silly. But you know how I like to eat stones!
Eat stones?! Oh Henry, you’re not still doing that are you? I thought you’d stopped – remember all that fuss last time?
I know. I just love them – I don’t know why. Anyway, this time I had to go and have an operation at the doggy hospital. It was awful, I was so scared – and Laura had to leave me there. She was so upset. I felt awful. They put me to sleep and when I woke up I had such a pain in my side – it was better than the pain in my tummy before the operation, but now I just feel sore and I’m not allowed to go on long walks. Winnie … they’d cut me open to get the stones out!
Poor Henry, you really should stop eating stones then shouldn’t you? Let’s just have a quiet cuddle then. I know you didn’t mean to upset Laura, and I’m sure she understands …
Yes, she’s been very good. She looks after me so well. I was in such pain, I’m sure I’ll never eat stones again …
I hope so Henry. Really only very small puppies usually eat stones. I know I chewed a couple and Claire always caught me before I could swallow them.
Well, I snuck away from Laura and she didn’t see. She’d have given me a right telling off if she knew. After I ate this one, it was a bit big, I had this terrible pain in my tummy. It was unbelievable!
Do you feel better now?
I do, but I’ve just got to take it easy whilst my stitches heal.
Oh Henry, I’m just glad you’re okay.
BREEDER’S ADVICE:
I wish I knew the answer to this problem, but I don’t! I can make some suggestions and offer a word of warning, but why dogs do this I really don’t know.
Perhaps they are bored, perhaps they are inquisitive, perhaps scraps of food from a barbecue have fallen on the ground? Whatever the reason, definitely they are being stupid! Unfortunately, they don’t make any connection between the sore tummy (and possible operation) with eating stones. Dogs live in the moment and would only learn if the undoubted agony happened immediately. However puppies will be puppies, so we must do our best to protect them. Some of the smaller pebbles can pass through, depending upon the breed. It might be a good idea to fence off gravelled areas, possibly spray with bitter apple or some such anti-chew preparation.
The word of warning concerns mulch. Please be sure to read the label as some mulch has been flavoured with Cocoa and (as I’m sure you know) chocolate – especially the darker chocolate – can be fatal to dogs. Even if the label states it is safe for dog, it isn’t if cocoa is listed. Greedy dogs can eat huge amounts of this and the consequences can be horrific. Sorry to end on such a glum note, but better safe than sorry.
Pat Thomas bred her first litter in 1971 and has bred Border Collies, Irish Setters, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Papillions, Labradors and, of course, Golden Retrievers.
Although Winnie is not yet in season most of her litter is booked. This is usually the case, although too many of one sex can be a problem. As a Kennel Club Accredited Breeder, Pat has free access to the K.C. website and if she have any puppies not sold, she puts them on there. However, mostly the pups are sold by word of mouth and families returning for a second, third and even a fourth puppy.
Winnie’s Woes Part 7 – Winnie Moves On
Winnie’s Woes Part 6 – Winnie Learns about Children
Winnie’s Woes Part 5 – Winnie’s friend Henry learns not to eat stones
Winnie’s Woes Part 4 – Winnie learns about other dogs
Winnie’s Woes Part 3 – Winnie Eats too much
Winnie’s Woes Part 2 – Winnie eats a shoe
Winnie’s Woes Part 1 – Winnie finds digging is not a popular activity!
Steve Jobs, giver of joy
My very first Mac, I used to carry it on my back in its made for purpose pack
As an Apple Mac user – I bought my first Mac in the early 1980′s – I followed the Steve Jobs’ story in a detached sort of way. I was having far too much fun on the computers to want to know the how and why. I was never an Apple fanatic, just an absorbed and enthusiastic user.
Being an Apple follower has meant a lot of mirth, ridicule and disbelief from those who used PCs. However, Apple has won through, as most of us knew it would but have quietly got on with our easy to operate devices. And that’s the key. They are friendly, yes they may be expensive, yes they may be idiosyncratic, but they are joyful!
As an example of just how easy they are to operate I trialled Macs with students with severe learning difficulties. They had no difficulty using them – it took 10 minutes for them to use the Write program successfully, another five to use the Paint program. It was a huge success.
I haven’t bothered to read anything about Steve’s passing until today when I read Steve Jobs’ sister’s eulogy to her brother. I was moved to tears. The past thirty plus years have been a hugely joyful experience using my Macs. Thank you Steve is all I can think to say.
Here’s the link to the eulogy.
Val Reynolds, Editor
