Tag Archives: Green Juice

11. Let’s all do a medical limbo!

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I had an audience with The Supreme Super Doc this week to see if the magic beans he’d prescribed have found their groove. His review was mixed – the groove not altogether groovy. Some great things are happening (applause, whoop) and some bad things are happening (boo, hiss). So I have found myself in a medical limbo, which must not be confused with ‘doing’ a medical limbo, involving bending backwards below conjoined stethoscopes (applause, whoop). On the contrary, I’m ‘in’ a medical limbo, which is rather like sitting in a metaphorical waiting room with no magazines. And in this no-mans land, I can’t beat my chest on bended knee and cry ‘why me?’ I can’t light a slim cigar and huskily sigh ‘je ne regrette rien’. Nor can I spin around on a mountaintop, singing ‘the hills are alive…’

I don’t get to partake in any of the above activities because I can’t be happy, or sad, or Edith Piaf. Instead, I must wait for another FIVE WEEKS, wondering if the drugs are working or if I’ll have to move onto more fearsome drugs. For another FIVE weeks, I’ll be contemplating what my body’s game plan is. Kidneys – are you looking lively? Heart beat – keeping up? Chest tissue – stop being so weedy, your teammates need you now! Isn’t it boring to have become so self-obsessed. I’m quite literally gazing at my own navel, wondering if Lucian Lupus is about to take hold of that too.

I don’t want to be that girl, obsessing over a wannabe Harry Potter villain stealing her tummy button**. She’s the last person you’d want to hang out with at a party! I have to remind myself that the magic beans will work, or won’t work, regardless of the amount of time I spend thinking about them. I have to fill my time with wonderful things I CAN do, instead of dwelling on all the things I can’t. Fun doesn’t have to mean Sauvignon Blanc, skipping and The Macarena at 4am… does it?

The Supreme Super Doc gently advised me to be patient, (apparently he had pre-warned me that this journey would be long, but obviously I hadn’t been listening because my head was busy planning my ‘I’m totally better’ party). So now I’ve got to ‘practice patience’. Gosh. I’ve never been any good at that. I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that patience is exclusively for people who have time to be patient. Take Buddhist monks for example– they’ve literally got nothing on – no TV series to catch up on, no drinks parties to go to. Their diaries are empty, it’s no wonder they’re so Zen! Perhaps they’ve learnt to practice patience waiting for party invites to turn up? Poor monks. Regardless of my devout impatience, I’ve taken a solemn vow to abstain from parties and commit to kale. I will embrace early nights and green food. I will remove myself from fun scenarios because I simply can’t keep up with them. For now. I will press pause.

So to the Lupus Troopers out there; learn to be patient patients my friends because fighting it won’t speed your recovery. Try not to remove all joy and replace it with navel gazing, because let’s face it they’re not all that exciting to watch. Enjoy the space your medical limbo has offered you. Focus on all that’s great. Take stock. Reflect. Laugh at this nonsense. And rehearse your rendition of ‘the hills are alive….’ Hare Krishna. (Applause, whoop.)

 

**As weird as that sentence is, it’ll make absolute sense if you’ve read a previous blog post. If it doesn’t make sense then you only have yourself to blame. Now, you’ve got a backlog of posts to catch up on dear! Quick sharp. Look lively! 

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Check me out with my green juice! Beat that buddha!

8. Insomnia and a Kidney Beret

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I don’t care what Instagram says, healthy eating isn’t fun and it certainly isn’t sexy. The truth is, ‘come to bed eyes’ should be more aptly named ‘sauvignon eyes’ because let’s face it, no romance ever blossomed over a wind-inspiring Green Smoothie. No babies were ever made after a playful evening of carrot batons and Wheatgrass shots. No dalliance into debauchery ever concluded with kale. No life-loving, adventure-seeking being ever said ‘hey, you know what’s really fun? Broccoli.’ (Unless of course, the broccoli is attached to the end of a bungee rope, or Snickers bar.) That’s not to say I haven’t tried to be green and lean. Every January I successfully detox for a week, and celebrate with a vat of Pinot Noir and a Chinese Takeaway for four, for one. But for the first time, I’ve got a legitimate reason to try, and I can’t find a legitimate reason not to. And so my foray into eating clean began with a hint of cynicism, a dollop of dismay and four sleepless nights.

The Super Doc (Doctor Lanham at the London Lupus Centre) suggested it was time to stop taking Tramadol because after three months, the stuff was doing nothing for my mojo. He also gave me a trial prescription for steroids in the hope they might encourage my immune system to perk up. Concerned that five days on the ‘roids would inspire immediate beard growth, an appetite for Call of Duty and a penchant wolf whistling, I decided that I should counteract chemicals with pure goodly goodness. I raided Amazon for books with (smug) pretty girls on the cover – they all seemed to be holding a yoga pose and green juice concurrently. Multi-tasking majesties. And their faces (smug faces) shone with the dew of their early morning Pilates, and their eyes sparkled, and their teeth twinkled and their plentiful hair curled like magnificent Unicorn manes. They glowed from their insides out, with livers exquisite enough to be worn as broaches and glistening clean colons that would make the most delightful necklaces. I didn’t just want to look like them, I wanted to be them (or at least wear their shiny organs as jewellery.) And as my salubrious sisters sang to me from their recipe book covers, I realised I shouldn’t have come off the Tramadol quite so quickly.

For FOUR NIGHTS I lay awake, counting sheep until there were none left. My body ached with exhaustion, but how could I possibly sleep when I was so busy re-enacting scenes from Trainspotting? The Tramadol had taken more of a hold than I had thought and the ‘roids were preparing me for a wild night out I was never going to go on. A sleepless haze distorted my days but I was determined to carry on regardless. Getting dressed felt like participating in the Iron Man finals. Commuting to work was a mission to the underworld with Hades on my back. Eating was essential in order to take my pills, but it’s ever so tricky to fry an egg white omelette from foetal position. Life seemed to be getting harder and curly kale wasn’t helping. Narcotics and healthy eating is a juxtaposition Irvine Walsh obviously hadn’t considered when he was writing Trainspotting, which is a shame because I could have done with a point of reference and the glowing girls weren’t helping.

When I found myself waking up on Regent’s Street having fainted amidst indifferent tourists, it was time to head back to Super Doc (with an awesome new recipe for sweet potato brownies.)

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Nothing says FUN like celery! (said no one ever)