I started Number Twos in July 2007, a couple of months after my first major flare-up and hospitalisation. If I had anything as grand as a founding principle it was to try to be as honest as possible. So as a record of my life with ulcerative colitis I think it’s pretty accurate. But recently I became curious about how the doctors have charted my illness, so I asked for a copy of my medical records.
For the first time I can see my journey in plain black and white. It reads like Number Twos with all the poo jokes taken out. It’s a skeleton of this blog if you like. Using my records I’ve been able to create a timeline from the very first time I went to the doctor with UC symptoms to the present day. To keep it simple I’ve omitted the various medications I’ve tried.
Two things strike me about my UC timeline. Firstly, in the very early days I continually failed to keep appointments with gastroenterology, which shows just how seriously I was taking things. And secondly, after a fairly stable period in 2008, it all suddenly went down hill very quickly. Bad luck I guess.
Finally, my medical records are a hefty 12mm thick and I agree with everything the doctors have written, apart from 7 words: Patient reports he is keen on surgery. That makes it sound like something in a lonely hearts ad, ‘I’m keen on country pubs, going to the cinema, reading and surgery.’
I would just like to make it clear the patient definitely was not keen on surgery. For the record, you understand.
5/8/05 First appointment with my GP with loose bowel movements and bleeding – my first flare-up. Referred to gastroenterology department at hospital.
8/9/05 Failed to attend gastro appointment.
13/10/05 Failed to attend rescheduled gastro appointment. No further appointments to be made.
14/2/06 Second flare-up. Appointment with my GP. Referral to the gastro department.
23/3/06 Attended first gastro appointment.
6/7/06 Sigmoidoscopy reveals extensive ulceration up to 50cm.
28/7/06 Diagnosed with distal ulcerative colitis.
26/1/07 Failed to attend gastro appointment.
13/4/07 Gastro appointment. Report 10 bowel movements a day.
24/4/07 Third flare-up. Admitted to hospital.
30/4/07 Discharged from hospital
29/6/07 Gastro appointment. Report 6 bowel movements a day. MRI scan demonstrates no evidence of fistula or abscess.
9/7/07 Blood tests reveal marked degree of inflammation.
21/9/07 Gastro appointment. Report 2-3 bowel movements a day.
11/1/08 Gastro appointment. Report 2-3 bowel movements a day.
15/2/08 Gastro appointment. Report normal bowel movements.
30/5/08 Gastro appointment. Report 2-3 bowel movements a day.
26/1/09 Admitted to hospital.
29/1/09 Sigmoidoscopy. Deep extensive ulceration with fissuring.
4/2/09 Discharged.
20/2/09 Readmitted to hospital.
26/2/09 Sigmoidoscopy. Deep ulceration and formation of pseudopolyps beyond the rectum culminating in a mass of them in the descending colon. Patient reports he is keen on surgery.
27/2/09 Colectomy surgery.
5/3/09 Discharged
18/6/09 Colonoscopy. Mildly active UC in descending colon and rectum.
17/3/10 Endoscopy. Awaiting results.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Eavesdropping, me?
A couple of years ago I was freelancing for a company in Spitalfields, East London. Befitting of the E1 postcode the offices were extremely funky. In the basement there was a kitchen area and three large, red leatherette, high-backed booths. A bit like an American diner.
One day a colleague and myself were having our lunch in one of the booths. We’re quietly eating when we become aware of a conversation in the booth behind ours. We can’t see them and they can’t see us.
A male voice speaks first, “So how was your weekend?”
“Not brilliant,” a female voice replies, “I was up at my parents.”
Mildly intriguing. Both my colleague and I stop chewing and instinctively lean back so we can hear better.
“Yeah, I’m still working through some issues with my dad,” continues the girl, “Stuff from my childhood.”
My eyes widen and my colleague pulls an ‘eek’ face. I flap my hands, meaning ‘shhh’, even though he hasn’t said anything.
“It’s only recently that I’ve been able to forgive him. And my mum, too, for letting it happen,” says the girl.
Letting what happen? Cripes, she must be one of Fred and Rose West’s kids. This is terrible. There’s a long silence.
Then the guy speaks, “Do you mind me asking…?”
“God no, it was all a long time ago,” she says.
I hold my breath. No way I’m missing this. I sit up as straight as I can, tilting my head so my ear is as close to the rim of the high-backed booth as possible. My colleague does the same. It looks like we’re hanging from invisible nooses.
The girl’s voice is now tinged with regret, “A friend from school’s parents were going away for the weekend and she had a party, but my dad wouldn’t let me go.” She let’s out a sad little sigh.
She wasn’t allowed to go to a party? No, no, no, that can’t be it? There must be more to the story than that? Maybe she missed out the bit about being handcuffed to a radiator from the age of four to seventeen? Or how she was forced to serve drinks topless to her dad and his mates? Puffing my cheeks out I slide back down the booth. My colleague rolls his eyes. I slowly close mine, shaking my head witheringly. We continue to eat in silence.
Now I know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but what I always say is, if you don’t want your conversations to be overheard, use telepathy. That’s what it’s for.
I recount this story because I think there’s a good lesson to be learnt from it. And it’s about the importance of keeping things in perspective. Perhaps I’ve been too quick to judge this girl, but from what I heard it seems she has taken a fairly minor adolescent grievance and fleshed it out into a full blown ‘issue’ that apparently she is still dealing with many years later. A mountain may well have been made out of a molehill. I’ve been guilty of doing the same myself.
But one thing I’ve learnt from Guru Cohen, and my dabblings into the happy-clappy world of self-help, is to keep things in perspective. And I believe it has made a huge difference to my general wellness and state of mind over the last year.
To be frank, having a colostomy bag can sometimes be a real shitter; I have to empty it, change it, it sometimes leaks, I’ve got a yucky looking hole in my tummy, you get the picture. It would be quite easy to let it get me down. Which is why I make a real effort to keep things in perspective; it only takes a minute to empty my bag, I can practically change it in my sleep, it doesn’t leak very often, 99.999999% of the world doesn’t know I have a hole in my tummy. Whenever my stoma infringes on my life, I try not to roll my eyes or sigh or grumble or whinge or let my head go down, I just deal with it as quickly as I can and then move on and forget about it. Making a conscious effort not to dwell on the unavoidable little niggles of life with a bag and to pivot my thoughts to the positives means I’m in a much happier place.
And that is why no one will ever overhear me complaining about having to deal with ‘issues’ with my colostomy bag. I’ve got it in perspective.
One day a colleague and myself were having our lunch in one of the booths. We’re quietly eating when we become aware of a conversation in the booth behind ours. We can’t see them and they can’t see us.
A male voice speaks first, “So how was your weekend?”
“Not brilliant,” a female voice replies, “I was up at my parents.”
Mildly intriguing. Both my colleague and I stop chewing and instinctively lean back so we can hear better.
“Yeah, I’m still working through some issues with my dad,” continues the girl, “Stuff from my childhood.”
My eyes widen and my colleague pulls an ‘eek’ face. I flap my hands, meaning ‘shhh’, even though he hasn’t said anything.
“It’s only recently that I’ve been able to forgive him. And my mum, too, for letting it happen,” says the girl.
Letting what happen? Cripes, she must be one of Fred and Rose West’s kids. This is terrible. There’s a long silence.
Then the guy speaks, “Do you mind me asking…?”
“God no, it was all a long time ago,” she says.
I hold my breath. No way I’m missing this. I sit up as straight as I can, tilting my head so my ear is as close to the rim of the high-backed booth as possible. My colleague does the same. It looks like we’re hanging from invisible nooses.
The girl’s voice is now tinged with regret, “A friend from school’s parents were going away for the weekend and she had a party, but my dad wouldn’t let me go.” She let’s out a sad little sigh.
She wasn’t allowed to go to a party? No, no, no, that can’t be it? There must be more to the story than that? Maybe she missed out the bit about being handcuffed to a radiator from the age of four to seventeen? Or how she was forced to serve drinks topless to her dad and his mates? Puffing my cheeks out I slide back down the booth. My colleague rolls his eyes. I slowly close mine, shaking my head witheringly. We continue to eat in silence.
Now I know you shouldn’t eavesdrop, but what I always say is, if you don’t want your conversations to be overheard, use telepathy. That’s what it’s for.
I recount this story because I think there’s a good lesson to be learnt from it. And it’s about the importance of keeping things in perspective. Perhaps I’ve been too quick to judge this girl, but from what I heard it seems she has taken a fairly minor adolescent grievance and fleshed it out into a full blown ‘issue’ that apparently she is still dealing with many years later. A mountain may well have been made out of a molehill. I’ve been guilty of doing the same myself.
But one thing I’ve learnt from Guru Cohen, and my dabblings into the happy-clappy world of self-help, is to keep things in perspective. And I believe it has made a huge difference to my general wellness and state of mind over the last year.
To be frank, having a colostomy bag can sometimes be a real shitter; I have to empty it, change it, it sometimes leaks, I’ve got a yucky looking hole in my tummy, you get the picture. It would be quite easy to let it get me down. Which is why I make a real effort to keep things in perspective; it only takes a minute to empty my bag, I can practically change it in my sleep, it doesn’t leak very often, 99.999999% of the world doesn’t know I have a hole in my tummy. Whenever my stoma infringes on my life, I try not to roll my eyes or sigh or grumble or whinge or let my head go down, I just deal with it as quickly as I can and then move on and forget about it. Making a conscious effort not to dwell on the unavoidable little niggles of life with a bag and to pivot my thoughts to the positives means I’m in a much happier place.
And that is why no one will ever overhear me complaining about having to deal with ‘issues’ with my colostomy bag. I’ve got it in perspective.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Oh Vienna
Recently I spent a few days wearing out the soles of my new shoes exploring Vienna. If you haven’t been, and you like a bit of culture with your schnitzel, I highly recommend it.
But never mind the museums and art galleries, it’s worth a visit for the magnificent cafes alone. Tucked away in a snug booth, watching the bow-tied waiters jink between tables, in a café that has barely changed in a century is an experience you just don’t get in Starbucks, where often the only thing that can claim to be old is a muffin nearing its sell by date.
It was in one such café that Elisabeth asked me if I would be interested in going to a bar she had found in one of our guidebooks. Through a mouthful of cheesecake I mumbled that I wasn’t particularly fussed. Then she told me the name of the bar.
Half an hour later we’re in the Museums Quartier and I’m gleefully peering through a very large bumhole into the interior of Bar Rectum. As I tweeted to Arkayeff, I've made an arse of myself in plenty of bars in my time, but I've never been in a bar made of an arse before.
But never mind the museums and art galleries, it’s worth a visit for the magnificent cafes alone. Tucked away in a snug booth, watching the bow-tied waiters jink between tables, in a café that has barely changed in a century is an experience you just don’t get in Starbucks, where often the only thing that can claim to be old is a muffin nearing its sell by date.
It was in one such café that Elisabeth asked me if I would be interested in going to a bar she had found in one of our guidebooks. Through a mouthful of cheesecake I mumbled that I wasn’t particularly fussed. Then she told me the name of the bar.
Half an hour later we’re in the Museums Quartier and I’m gleefully peering through a very large bumhole into the interior of Bar Rectum. As I tweeted to Arkayeff, I've made an arse of myself in plenty of bars in my time, but I've never been in a bar made of an arse before.
Anyone who has had an endoscopy will notice this bowel is UC free.
Note the Germanic attention to detail: beanbags in the shape of shit.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Badges
On my travels I’m always on the lookout for interesting badges, which at some future date, may or may not be used to jazz up a jacket or jumper. That sentence may seem a little odd coming from a 38-year-old man, but what can I say, in my opinion a little scrap of tin can only enhance a Marks & Spencer pullover. (Of course if M&S actually started selling jumpers with badges already on them, I would take them off. I’m contrary like that.)A badge that caught my eye a while back is the one above. It’s a Help For Heroes badge and the £3 I paid for it goes to wounded servicemen, which is very commendable, but not why I bought it. I just thought it would add a Modish touch to an otherwise plain Uniqlo jumper I have.
One of the things I find with wearing badges is they intrigue people. Quite often perfect strangers will ask me the significance of them. One badge I have is a little metal hand grenade, and when I inevitably find myself explaining to someone in the Post Office queue, that it has no meaning and that I just like it, they look disappointed, like they were expecting me to tell them I was awarded it for my part in the storming of the Iranian Embassy in 1980. The truth is sometimes badges are just badges and nothing more than a piece of whimsy.
But recently I’ve started to look at my Help For Heroes medal in a new light. I bought it shortly after my colectomy op last year and I’ve decided that from now on it does have some significance. I’m awarding it to myself for the way I’ve handled the last 12 months. Obviously many people face far, far bigger challenges than adapting to life with a colostomy bag, but I’m going to give myself a pat on the back, because I’m kind of proud of myself. And I’ve not always been able to say that, because in the past even the slightest hiccup in my life would have had me self-medicating on vast quantities of Guinness. Sadly for the landlords of my old watering holes in Walthamstow, I’ve been dealing with things with optimism and positivity, not alcohol and more alcohol.
And I’m pleased to say it’s working. Life is good. I am very happy. The last year has been great. Of course, I don’t really think I deserve a medal for being an ostomate and when someone asks me what my badge is for, I’ll do what I always do, and tell them I just like the colours and I think it’s cool. Privately though, I know it means a little bit more to me than that.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Every UC cloud has a silver lining
The other day I received a letter from my GP. An appointment has been made for me to have the Swine Flu Vaccination. I think I qualify because I’m on azathioprine, which is an immunosuppressant. There aren’t too many advantages to having ulcerative colitis, but getting the Swine Flu Vaccine might just be one of them. I feel like I’ve been given the last cabin on Noah’s Ark. I’m on the last chopper out of Saigon. I’m one of the little green aliens in Toy Story that get picked up by the claw. I’ve been saved. Just as long as I don’t catch anything between now and 10am on 1st December.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Does anyone know where the gents are?
The online UC community is much bigger now than it was when I started blogging in 2007. Back then there were the web forums run by the various IBD groups and organisations, but very few blogs. As you can see by the links section over there on the right, that’s all changed. More and more of us are now sharing our experiences. Which can only be a good thing given ulcerative colitis is an illness few people openly talk about. I have noticed though that there aren’t too many male UC bloggers. Also most of the comments I get on here are from women. It’s the same with the Number Twos followers. Nearly all girls. As far as I know UC affects men and women equally, so where are the chaps? Are men just less comfortable talking about their illnesses? Do they prefer to tough it out in hairy-chested, square-jawed, manly silence? Are men too busy huntin’, shootin’ and insulatin’ the loft cavity space to be wittering on the internet? If this is the case, where does that leave me? Am I a big girl’s blouse for blogging about my UC?
Friday, November 20, 2009
Ostomy & me
Sometimes I think I don’t blog enough about being an ostomate. This might be because I know I’m not going to be one forever. To use a footballing analogy, I feel like I’m only on loan to the ostomates. And early next year when I have my reversal I’ll go back to being just a UC person. Or if I can emulate Guy Cohen, I might even be a regular healthy person. Who knows? But right now I am a fully-fledged, colostomy bag-wearing ostomate with ulcerative colitis. I should probably talk about it more.
It was only eight months ago that I was totally floored by the flare-up that was to lead to me becoming an ostomate. I wasn’t able to go to work. I could barely get to the shops and back without having an accident. And I was often waking up three or four times during the night to go to the toilet. It was physically and mentally draining. I was also hospitalised a couple of times, but no amount of medication made a difference. Surgery started to look like the only way out. I wasn’t exactly mad about the idea of having a colostomy bag, but nor was I in love with remaining in the grip of a flare-up indefinitely. Plus I needed to get back to work. I’ve got a mortgage and bills to pay. Having the op meant if all went well I would be back at work in a month. That was the deal on the table. I took it.
Since my operation on 27th February I haven’t looked back. There were a few niggles in the early days, which I wrote about at the time, but eight months on and I’m in a very good place. Becoming an ostomate really, really isn’t the end of the world. Without wishing to sound too dramatic, the operation gave me my life back. I’ve worked solidly since the end of March. Most evenings I walk half of the way home to either Liverpool Street Station, which is 2.7 miles or Highbury & Islington Station, which is 2.8 miles. In August Elisabeth and myself completed a 12 mile hike in the Lake District. Neither of us had ever walked that far in our lives before. I fly regularly back and forth to Germany. And recently I went up in a hot air balloon, which given its lack of onboard toilet facilities would have been an absolute no-no before. Having a colostomy bag doesn’t stop me doing anything. These days if I get exhausted it’s because I’ve walked from Oxford Circus to Walthamstow or I’ve gone nuts to Eye of the Tiger one too many times.
And if for some reason I couldn’t have my reversal in the new year and I was an ostomate for life, I could live with that. No problem.
It was only eight months ago that I was totally floored by the flare-up that was to lead to me becoming an ostomate. I wasn’t able to go to work. I could barely get to the shops and back without having an accident. And I was often waking up three or four times during the night to go to the toilet. It was physically and mentally draining. I was also hospitalised a couple of times, but no amount of medication made a difference. Surgery started to look like the only way out. I wasn’t exactly mad about the idea of having a colostomy bag, but nor was I in love with remaining in the grip of a flare-up indefinitely. Plus I needed to get back to work. I’ve got a mortgage and bills to pay. Having the op meant if all went well I would be back at work in a month. That was the deal on the table. I took it.
Since my operation on 27th February I haven’t looked back. There were a few niggles in the early days, which I wrote about at the time, but eight months on and I’m in a very good place. Becoming an ostomate really, really isn’t the end of the world. Without wishing to sound too dramatic, the operation gave me my life back. I’ve worked solidly since the end of March. Most evenings I walk half of the way home to either Liverpool Street Station, which is 2.7 miles or Highbury & Islington Station, which is 2.8 miles. In August Elisabeth and myself completed a 12 mile hike in the Lake District. Neither of us had ever walked that far in our lives before. I fly regularly back and forth to Germany. And recently I went up in a hot air balloon, which given its lack of onboard toilet facilities would have been an absolute no-no before. Having a colostomy bag doesn’t stop me doing anything. These days if I get exhausted it’s because I’ve walked from Oxford Circus to Walthamstow or I’ve gone nuts to Eye of the Tiger one too many times.
And if for some reason I couldn’t have my reversal in the new year and I was an ostomate for life, I could live with that. No problem.
On my recent balloon trip the nearest loo was only 30 metres away - straight down.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Happy feet
My legs are bending and clacking straight again like a builders tape measure. Bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. This is me dancing. Well, the lower half anyway. The upper half is doing its own thing entirely. My arms are bent at the elbow. I know this much. But past the elbow it’s anyone’s guess. Some sort of twirling might be occurring. It’s hard to say. Perhaps windmilling is a better description. So, to recap – legs: bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. Arms from the elbow down: twirl, windmill, twirl, windmill. Sounds about right. I’m fairly certain if I ever danced like this in a club a 24hr vet would be called out and I would be shot with a sedative dart. Fortunately I’m in the privacy of my spare room. Blinds closed. As are my eyes. Clinging for dear life to my wildly bucking head is a pair of headphones, through which blasts Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. Perhaps better known as the theme song from Rocky. 3 minutes 53 seconds of pure testosterone-pumped cheddar. And I’m doing the full Travolta to it in my back bedroom. Legs: bend, straighten, bend, straighten, bend, straighten. Arms from the elbow down: twirl, windmill, twirl, windmill. Oh, for pity’s sake what now. Cripes. I’m triumphantly punching the air with a clenched fist, which is odd because a 37-year-old man rocking out to Survivor on his own isn’t anything to feel particularly triumphant about. I’m too English for this. I do feel ever so silly. But I’m possessed by the steady rhythmic beat of the drums, which sound like the pounding feet of Hannibal’s war elephants on the march. As I pirouette out of a deft little Northern Soul spin I remember Guru Cohen’s words, “Really go for it and dance and celebrate being well again, feel the joy and happiness just like you’re completely better, really get into it and feel those emotions, be grateful for being healthy.” So as my legs bend and straighten and my arms twirl and windmill and punch the air I focus my mind on what it would feel like to be well. I summon up the spirit of Rocky and imagine myself as victor. I try to visualise myself totally fit and free of ulcerative colitis. I try to feel it as if it were true. It’s a huge mental effort, but I start to smile, and for a fleeting moment I do feel something, and it feels good.
Every day after I’ve finish my hypnotherapy session I put my headphones on and dance to Eye of the Tiger. I no longer feel such a berk and I quite enjoy it now. I’m not sure if it’s having any effect on my UC, but my dancing is coming on in leaps and bounds, and I’ve been called back for a second audition for Grease: The Musical.
Every day after I’ve finish my hypnotherapy session I put my headphones on and dance to Eye of the Tiger. I no longer feel such a berk and I quite enjoy it now. I’m not sure if it’s having any effect on my UC, but my dancing is coming on in leaps and bounds, and I’ve been called back for a second audition for Grease: The Musical.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Prattle, prattle, prattle, prattle, prattle, oh that’s nice, prattle, prattle
Every now and then, in a desperate bid to inject some much needed variety into this tired old grey sock of a blog, I resort to posting pictures that in all honesty have diddlysquat to do with ulcerative colitis. Though instinctively I feel a photograph of a toilet seat with some crocodile teeth painted on it (which I posted ages ago) can only lift this blog to loftier heights. Such visual witticisms add a nuance of texture. It's all about light and shade. And just as the classic Beatles album, Revolver has the acid-tinged psychedelia of Tomorrow Never Knows rubbing shoulders with the pre-school tomfoolery of Yellow Submarine, on Number Twos you will often find my inane whimperings shored up with something far more rewarding. Like this picture of a load of old bog rolls stuck up in someone’s spare room.
Monday, November 16, 2009
I think Pixar are safe
I made another film. I’m not going to post it here because Number Twos is an extremely serious blog, with certain editorial standards that must be upheld. If you do want to watch the film you can see it here, where there are clearly no standards whatsoever.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Image is everything
Thanks to an outbreak of flaky, head-to-toe eczema as a baby I missed out on being christened. I can only imagine my parents thought there was a danger I’d dissolve in the font. Or one of my limbs would break off like an over-dunked Hobnob. As a result I’m not a particularly religious man. But I do love a good church. I just think they’re amazing places; the stonework, the stained glass, the tapestries, the carpentry, the big organ thing with the giant set of panpipes sticking out the top. From nave to pulpit churches are flippin’ impressive. But if churches are still capable of wowing our 21st century eyes, imagine how mind-bendingly impressive they must have been to our ancestors, who in all probability would have never seen an IKEA, like we have. For the average medieval peasant, the local church would have been as sexy as hell. A bit like Harvey Nichols is to us now. In the wattle and daub landscape churches would have added a touch of glitz and glamour. The church knew how to create a good image. All that gold and stained glass was there to seduce us. And I guess over the centuries it worked.
But as church congregations dwindle it seems more people are turning to the self-help section of their local bookshops for spiritual enlightenment. I don’t think this is any more right or wrong than being fed a Pringle by a middle-aged man wearing a purple dress. As John Lennon sang, ‘Whatever gets you thru the night, s’alright.’
Regular readers of Number Twos will know that recently I have been exploring alternative therapies in an attempt to rid myself of ulcerative colitis. This has taken me deep into the murky world of self-help. And whilst it continues to be a fascinating, and I think, a rewarding journey, one thing concerns me. Self-help has an image problem. It looks naff.
A majority of the books, websites and DVDs I’ve come across look cheap, tacky and poorly produced. It’s like Del Boy has twigged there might be a few quid to be made in the self-help business and has got Rodney to knock something up on his ‘puter.
Self-help looks low-rent. The moment I see faux-Michelangelo illustrations, techy brainwavey icons or dodgy quasi-religious scrolls I start to get suspicious. Much of the design and imagery is so heavy-handed and desperate to be taken seriously, for me it actually has the opposite effect. And the music in some of the films I’ve watched on youtube sounds like it’s being played on Casio keyboards rescued from the rubble of a Tandy store after a gas explosion. I assume the filmmakers were aiming for ethereal and soothing, but again, it just comes across as cheesy and bargain-basement. Sigh.
In my opinion these low production values undermine the message. Sometimes how you present something is just as important as what you present. Personally I think there are some really worthwhile ideas that fall under the umbrella of self-help, that do deserve a wider audience, but until the writers, filmmakers and designers start to consider how they package their message, many people will continue to be put off. As the church understood, get the image right and people will take notice.
What’s the matter with the truth? Everything comes in packages. If it’s in a package you can bring the devil in the house. People rely on packages. If you will wrap it up, they will take it.
Saul Bellow, ‘The Victim’
But as church congregations dwindle it seems more people are turning to the self-help section of their local bookshops for spiritual enlightenment. I don’t think this is any more right or wrong than being fed a Pringle by a middle-aged man wearing a purple dress. As John Lennon sang, ‘Whatever gets you thru the night, s’alright.’
Regular readers of Number Twos will know that recently I have been exploring alternative therapies in an attempt to rid myself of ulcerative colitis. This has taken me deep into the murky world of self-help. And whilst it continues to be a fascinating, and I think, a rewarding journey, one thing concerns me. Self-help has an image problem. It looks naff.
A majority of the books, websites and DVDs I’ve come across look cheap, tacky and poorly produced. It’s like Del Boy has twigged there might be a few quid to be made in the self-help business and has got Rodney to knock something up on his ‘puter.
Self-help looks low-rent. The moment I see faux-Michelangelo illustrations, techy brainwavey icons or dodgy quasi-religious scrolls I start to get suspicious. Much of the design and imagery is so heavy-handed and desperate to be taken seriously, for me it actually has the opposite effect. And the music in some of the films I’ve watched on youtube sounds like it’s being played on Casio keyboards rescued from the rubble of a Tandy store after a gas explosion. I assume the filmmakers were aiming for ethereal and soothing, but again, it just comes across as cheesy and bargain-basement. Sigh.
In my opinion these low production values undermine the message. Sometimes how you present something is just as important as what you present. Personally I think there are some really worthwhile ideas that fall under the umbrella of self-help, that do deserve a wider audience, but until the writers, filmmakers and designers start to consider how they package their message, many people will continue to be put off. As the church understood, get the image right and people will take notice.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Sympathy in the Workplace
I discovered this animation site and made a little film. Hope you like it.
(If you double-click the film I think it'll take you through to the site where you can watch it in its proper format.)
(If you double-click the film I think it'll take you through to the site where you can watch it in its proper format.)
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Back to the future II
I’m still drawn to this time machine idea.
Having lived with ulcerative colitis for a few years now, I’ve got a pretty good understanding of how it impacts on my life.
I suppose it’s called experience.
But just because I have all this ‘experience’ it doesn’t mean I think I know all the answers.
I really, really don’t.
Although there is some stuff I know now that I wish I’d known when I was first diagnosed.
And I suppose that’s called hindsight.
For example, it would have been good to know about Guy Cohen and some of his ideas 4 years ago.
There are lots of things that I would like to have known earlier.
But they were either not available to me or I wasn’t looking hard enough for them.
And I didn’t turn up in a time machine with a handy little UC guidebook from the future either.
So, I’m not sure where I’m going with this.
I’m just really intrigued with the idea, that if I could go back to 2005 what would I say to myself?
Or if I could give myself a notebook full of advice, what would be written on those pages?
Having lived with ulcerative colitis for a few years now, I’ve got a pretty good understanding of how it impacts on my life.
I suppose it’s called experience.
But just because I have all this ‘experience’ it doesn’t mean I think I know all the answers.
I really, really don’t.
Although there is some stuff I know now that I wish I’d known when I was first diagnosed.
And I suppose that’s called hindsight.
For example, it would have been good to know about Guy Cohen and some of his ideas 4 years ago.
There are lots of things that I would like to have known earlier.
But they were either not available to me or I wasn’t looking hard enough for them.
And I didn’t turn up in a time machine with a handy little UC guidebook from the future either.
So, I’m not sure where I’m going with this.
I’m just really intrigued with the idea, that if I could go back to 2005 what would I say to myself?
Or if I could give myself a notebook full of advice, what would be written on those pages?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Bloody Redgrave. Again
Sir Steve Redgrave may be a pretty useful oarsman, but he wouldn’t be much cop as a UC blogger.
In his book Inspired: Stories of Sporting Greatness he dedicates just 5 pages to his ulcerative colitis. But maybe he’s right to downplay his illness? Some of his success may be down to not giving his illness a bigger role than it deserves.
In one of the few passages in which he actually talks about UC he says this.
It also makes me wonder if blogging about ulcerative colitis, and therefore dedicating a sizeable chunk of my time to thinking about it, may actually be detrimental to my health?
Maybe it’s time I gave my UC a smaller role?
In his book Inspired: Stories of Sporting Greatness he dedicates just 5 pages to his ulcerative colitis. But maybe he’s right to downplay his illness? Some of his success may be down to not giving his illness a bigger role than it deserves.
In one of the few passages in which he actually talks about UC he says this.
It’s very interesting that he credits willpower. This ties in with everything Guy Cohen believes.
Both before and after the Olympics the colitis was hard to manage and sometimes excruciating, but for a ten-week window which culminated in Barcelona I was fine. That’s why I say it was only partly the medication that helped me to my third gold and Matt to his first. The other part was something I never fully understood, something along the lines of willpower. I don’t know whether stories of women finding the superhuman strength to lift ton-weight of cars to rescue their children are purely mythical. All I know is that I’m more prepared to believe them after the Barcelona Olympics.
It also makes me wonder if blogging about ulcerative colitis, and therefore dedicating a sizeable chunk of my time to thinking about it, may actually be detrimental to my health?
Maybe it’s time I gave my UC a smaller role?
Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 8.2
Wednesday 4th November:
3.45am Change bag
7am Change bag
11.50am Empty bag
4.30pm Empty bag
7pm Empty bag
9.55pm Empty bag
Medication:
Breakfast 6 x mesalazine 400mg
Dinner 4 x azathioprine 50mg
Bedtime 6 x mesalazine 400mg
Therapies:
McKenna
Noticeable improvements:
Blood.
Mood:
Still good.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Back to the future
If you had a time machine and you could travel back to the day you were first diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, what advice would you give yourself?
This is my first stab at it:
What would you say to yourself?
It could make an interesting/helpful/inspiring/funny little book?
This is my first stab at it:
You may not be able to control everything that happens, but you can always control how you deal with it.
What would you say to yourself?
It could make an interesting/helpful/inspiring/funny little book?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 8.1
Wednesday 28th October:
7am Change bag
11.30am Empty bag
6.45pm Empty bag
9.30pm Empty bag
Medication:
Breakfast 6 x mesalazine 400mg
Dinner 4 x azathioprine 50mg
Bedtime 6 x mesalazine 400mg
Therapies:
None.
Noticeable improvements:
No blood.
Mood:
Good.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Bedtime reading
Foyles sits on the edge of Soho like a bookend. Established in 1903 it is the Harrods of bookshops. In its heyday Christina Foyle held literary lunches on the premises, attended by famous writers of the time. If ever the Oxford English Dictionary were stuck for a definition of ‘intimidating’ then ‘Foyles literary lunch’ would sum it up well for me.
Recently I did something in Foyles I’ve never done before. I went downstairs to the basement floor in search of the self-help section. It’s ironic that you have to go down to find the books that will make you feel up. What immediately struck me about the self-help section is its size. The shelves are floor to ceiling with books written by gurus of every description; businessmen, entrepreneurs, doctors, hypnotists, healers, religious leaders, celebrities, sportspeople, professors, scientists, philosophers, weathergirls (probably); the selection is mind-boggling. In fact someone should write a self-help guide to self-help guides. It would probably sell.
There clearly is money to be made in the self-help business. I’ve read a few articles recently suggesting the current popularity of the genre is largely down to the credit crunch and modern life being a bit stressy and shit. There’s probably some truth in that. A couple of journalists even go as far as to actually blame the banking collapse on self-help books themselves, which they claim are responsible for psyching up city traders and making them feel invincible. At this point it all gets a bit chicken and egg and I need to lie down.
Whilst flicking idly through various books, with bombastic titles such as Want it, See it, Get it! I surreptitiously took a peek at my fellow browsers. They didn’t look desperate, unstable, depressed or haunted, like they were about to throw themselves under a tube train. Nor did they particularly look like pumped up little Gordon Gekkos. They actually appeared an incredibly normal bunch. Although I did note we were all men. Perhaps women solve their problems by talking about them, whereas men prefer to furtively underline key phrases and scribble notes in the margins of self-help books?
There’s a lot of scepticism about the self-help industry. And when you read some of the titles, like Happier Than God and Awaken The Giant Within it’s easy to see why. The style of some of the writing doesn’t help either. A couple of books I picked up read like nothing more than extended penis enlargement ads. But I decided to hold back on my cynicism. After all you don’t dismiss John Steinbeck because he happens to be on the same shelf as Danielle Steel, do you? Like any genre, there must be good self-help books and bad ones. It may be a case of not judging a book by its cover. Or even its chest-beating, testosterone-enhanced title.
On the recommendation of Guy Cohen I bought Paul McKenna’s Control Stress book. I like it, a lot of it makes sense to me and it dovetails nicely with Guy’s therapies. If you feel stress may be an issue for you I think it would be £10.99 well spent. Since my trip to Foyles I’ve started to amass a small library of self-help books and related newspaper articles. (I’ve found quite a few books in charity shops, which perhaps isn’t a good sign.) Some of the stuff I’ve read seems a little fanciful, but on the whole I find them really useful to dip into for a nugget of wisdom or a piece of fresh thinking. A few pages a day seems to help keep me focused and heading in the right direction. For me, self-help books can be a great resource if you open them with an open mind.
Recently I did something in Foyles I’ve never done before. I went downstairs to the basement floor in search of the self-help section. It’s ironic that you have to go down to find the books that will make you feel up. What immediately struck me about the self-help section is its size. The shelves are floor to ceiling with books written by gurus of every description; businessmen, entrepreneurs, doctors, hypnotists, healers, religious leaders, celebrities, sportspeople, professors, scientists, philosophers, weathergirls (probably); the selection is mind-boggling. In fact someone should write a self-help guide to self-help guides. It would probably sell.
There clearly is money to be made in the self-help business. I’ve read a few articles recently suggesting the current popularity of the genre is largely down to the credit crunch and modern life being a bit stressy and shit. There’s probably some truth in that. A couple of journalists even go as far as to actually blame the banking collapse on self-help books themselves, which they claim are responsible for psyching up city traders and making them feel invincible. At this point it all gets a bit chicken and egg and I need to lie down.
Whilst flicking idly through various books, with bombastic titles such as Want it, See it, Get it! I surreptitiously took a peek at my fellow browsers. They didn’t look desperate, unstable, depressed or haunted, like they were about to throw themselves under a tube train. Nor did they particularly look like pumped up little Gordon Gekkos. They actually appeared an incredibly normal bunch. Although I did note we were all men. Perhaps women solve their problems by talking about them, whereas men prefer to furtively underline key phrases and scribble notes in the margins of self-help books?
There’s a lot of scepticism about the self-help industry. And when you read some of the titles, like Happier Than God and Awaken The Giant Within it’s easy to see why. The style of some of the writing doesn’t help either. A couple of books I picked up read like nothing more than extended penis enlargement ads. But I decided to hold back on my cynicism. After all you don’t dismiss John Steinbeck because he happens to be on the same shelf as Danielle Steel, do you? Like any genre, there must be good self-help books and bad ones. It may be a case of not judging a book by its cover. Or even its chest-beating, testosterone-enhanced title.
On the recommendation of Guy Cohen I bought Paul McKenna’s Control Stress book. I like it, a lot of it makes sense to me and it dovetails nicely with Guy’s therapies. If you feel stress may be an issue for you I think it would be £10.99 well spent. Since my trip to Foyles I’ve started to amass a small library of self-help books and related newspaper articles. (I’ve found quite a few books in charity shops, which perhaps isn’t a good sign.) Some of the stuff I’ve read seems a little fanciful, but on the whole I find them really useful to dip into for a nugget of wisdom or a piece of fresh thinking. A few pages a day seems to help keep me focused and heading in the right direction. For me, self-help books can be a great resource if you open them with an open mind.
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