I went on Newsnight this week, to talk about ECT.
ECT stands for electro-convulsive therapy. It is a treatment for depression. A very successful and straightforward treatment, in my case.
I have it about once a year, when my depression comes back. When the illness pours iced water through my veins, so it's hard to move my limbs; whispers insidiously in my ear that I'm useless and that the joke's on me for speaking so openly about it when I'm well, until I'm reduced to tears; and sits cross-legged on my chest, like a baddie from Luther, stifling me with its weight and water-boarding me with fear.
You can watch it here, although this link will combust in a couple of days.
I also went on Radio 5 live the next day, to talk about it with some of the people interviewed for the Newsnight report. Two of these were doctors - Dr Ian Reid, a psychiatrist who uses ECT and has made some interesting discoveries about how it actually works, and Dr John Read, a psychologist who thinks that ECT is a placebo with harmful side-effects.
I'm not a scientist, or a doctor, so I didn't want to get into the research debate. I'm just someone who's had a lot of ECT, and looked into it as much as a journalist can, when I wrote my piece for the Guardian last year.
(NB this seems like a good time to reveal that I wrote about it for the Telegraph too, a few years before, under my middle name. I'm not ashamed of having it at all, but at the time I was worried that it would be the only thing that ever came up when you googled me, and didn't want to be defined by it. I don't worry about that any more.)
But when it comes to the science, here's where I stand. I would rather be guided by someone who actually works with ECT patients, administers it regularly and carefully monitors the side-effects by testing short-term memory and brain function for months afterwards. This is what Dr Reid does.
By scanning the brains of severely depressed people before and after treatment, you can see the difference that ECT has made on them. I've always known that a depressed brain looks different, but I've never seen the pictures. They showed them on Newsnight and I found that fascinating.
Dr Reid's 'hyperconnectivity' theory is that ECT 'turns down' (picture a volume knob here) the connections between the bits of the brain that govern mood and thinking. Maybe it's a bit like having one bit of your brain behave like a toddler having a tantrum, which happens to us all, right? Some people's brains can cope with that, mentally shut the door or take a deep breath and plough on. A depressed person's brain is far too sensitive to that trigger, their nerves become completely frayed very quickly, and the bit controlling their mood ends up sobbing on the kitchen floor.
Dr Read does not actually work with ECT patients. His paper is a literature review - he has carefully selected studies done by other people, and drawn his own conclusions from them. Let me say that again: Dr Read does not work with people who have ECT.
His argument that the treatment becomes 'addictive' also doesn't stand up, in my case. The pattern of my illness hasn't changed. I have rapid-cycling, unipolar, severe depression. For ten years, I would have an episode approximately once a year. It would take several months to burn itself out, despite whatever pills or therapy I was trying at that time.
Then I tried ECT. They put me to sleep, I woke up, and I was better.
However, I haven't had to have it increasingly regularly in the six years since then. It's not a quick fix that brings me back begging for more after a few weeks. The frequency of the episodes is unchanged. It still comes back about once a year. It just means I get back to normal much more quickly.
I'd like a lot more to be done to reduce the stigma surrounding ECT, which is often based on myths. I thought I'd come across them all before, but Newsnight brought me face to face with an amusing reaction that I'd never encountered. In the green room beforehand, I was introduced to the guests for another item, on the economy. I stood up and shook their hands. As I was doing so, the producer explained to one person that I was someone who had electric shock therapy. She looked appalled, and snatched her hand back quickly.
I know it's unfair to judge on a kneejerk reaction, but what was going through her mind at that moment? Did she think I was hooked up to the mains, or still carrying around a voltage?!
Would a scan of her brain at that precise instant tell us whether she reacted like that because she quickly accessed a memory, or misheard, or because an emotion she was feeling manifested itself as a physical response?
Anyway, a scan of my brain at the moment would show that I am perfectly fine, mental health-wise, at the moment. I have no hyperconnectivity to the tantrumming brain toddler, but I do have one in real life who has a new reason for some challenging behaviour.
Logie is potty training at the moment. Yep, just when you thought this was a serious blog post about an important issue, I go and spoil it with this. I still have ringing in my ears someone I heard on Woman's Hour ages ago, talking about how and why she went back to work after having a baby, and I simply can't get this fragment of what she said out of my head: "blah blah blah...work-life balance...how to have it all...men never get asked if they miss their kids...but in the end, I just thought that either I went back to work or I became one of those mummys who stayed at home and wrote a blog about poo".
This makes me think 'f*** you' and 'oh god, I agree, that's what I've become' in equal measures. But I'm going to plough on. (And for what it's worth, I adore Woman's Hour, it's my lifeline, and it's my great ambition to go on it to talk about ECT.)
He's been great on the wee front. I'm very proud of him. But poo has been more challenging. He has become anally retentive, in the truest sense of the word.
We've been through the mill in the last few weeks: constipation, diarrhoea, panic, tears, disapproval from nursery (thanks for that), dramatic false alarms, dramatic genuine alarms, sore botties and tummies. We go through a rather trying dance of the seven veils whenever a code brown is imminent, which can take a whole afternoon to reach its denouement.
Things are improving gradually, but it's a good reminder that you can't get too comfortable when raising small children - whenever you think you've cracked it, it's time to do something new. A few weeks ago it felt like we were starting to come out of the tunnel, thanks to Felix finally sleeping through and a new sun and stars sleep-training clock for Logie. But now I'm weaning one and potty training the other, and life seems busier than ever.
Though it's not without its sweet moments too. Logie is very keen on coming to the loo with me these days. He praises me, with a big smile and a slightly insulting look of surprise on his face - "Well done mumma!" - when I've finished, and passes me the tiniest wisp of loo paper. "Thanks!" I reply, enthusiastically. "You're welcome," he intones graciously. And my body, and my brain, become suffused with happiness.
Sunday 28 July 2013
Tuesday 16 July 2013
Hair and hayfever
Sounds like the title of a West End show, doesn't it - 'Hair and Hayfever'? Sort of Noel Coward in the psychedelic 1970s gone wrong.
I'd have to wear a wig though. (Can you imagine how unpleasant that must be in this heat?) Because my hairline is receding so far it's not so much a widow's peak as a new mother's M-shape.
When my hair is back, if I tuck a loose middle bit behind my ear, you can actually see a small triangle of scalp behind that strand.
I worry because hair loss runs in my family, on the female side. But I think that a similar thing happened after I had Logie too, and some of it grew back, a bit. I have a vague memory of pointing out some baby-hair-type regrowth with relief.
Since then I've moved hairdressers, so I can't ask the current one what she remembers - and she's far too nice to say it was a problem anyway. She gave it a really good cut a few weeks ago, quite a good bit off, looked like there was a dead cat on the floor afterwards, and NO ONE has noticed.
That's probably because I always used to wear my hair up in a messy ponytail, regardless of whether it was newly cut, or clean. Because I hated the sensation of it on the back of my neck, when I was hot, or was rolling my sleeves up to tackle some laundry, or found myself stuck for small talk. Any excuse. But I've got the fear about something called traction alopecia, even though only people who have Croydon facelifts every day really have to worry about that.
But such is my concern that I've worn it down, determinedly, every day since then. Yes, even in this heat. Even at Felix's christening, when I was waltzing about at the side of the cricket pitch afterwards in 30 degrees, or hurtling down the bouncy castle obstacle course slide in an undignified manner.
It's been quite a challenge for me, as my compulsion to put my hair up is so automatic that I've had to break the habit by not ever having a hairtie on my wrist or in my bag. Which is jolly annoying. Especially when you're about to go swimming (the pool and the bath don't count).
Another addiction that I've been keeping secret for some time involves my nose. I am a nose spray junkie.
The thing is, I simply can't bear having a blocked up nose. It drives me mad. I feel like I can't do anything - eat, type, be nice to my children - if I can't breathe through my nose properly. Or sleep. Especially sleep. It's a bit like when I've taken my lenses out, or am wearing a pair of glasses that's the wrong prescription; if I can't see properly, I feel like I can't hear either.
There's always an excuse for it - a cold, pregnancy rhinitis, hayfever - but for a long time now I've been using those very strong nose sprays you can buy over the counter. Despite being fully aware that the more you use them, the more you bugger up your nose, and the more you need them. But like every good addict, I can't stop. I am dependent on it, even though I know it's part of the problem.
However, my hayfever has been dreadful this year. Lots of people are saying that, and some friends are experiencing it for the first time. My nose has been out of control with itching and congestion, I had to leave our summer party with our neighbours early because I couldn't stop sneezing, and sometimes even my eyes go too.
Added to which, I had a small sore patch inside one of my nostrils, obviously from my substance abuse. So I thought it was finally time to go to the GP and fess up.
You know when you have those sort of sad, dramatic fantasies about how something is going to turn out? They're usually confined to one's teenage years, but I have a penchant. Well, I had this idea that she was going to castigate me and send me to some specialist where the waiting room was full of cocaine enthusiasts, with collapsing noses.
Instead, she mildly pointed out that I shouldn't keep using it, said my nose was fine, and prescribed me over-the-counter hayfever pills (ceterizine, available to buy as Piriteze) and Beconase, an aqueous nasal spray for allergies. Actually she also wrote up a prescription for eyedrops as well, but when I questioned whether I could use them because I wear contact lenses she was quite taken aback, and said that no one had ever asked her about that in her whole career. Check with the pharmacist, she advised - who confirmed it was no go.
I was relieved to have her establish that there are no known harmful effects from taking hayfever pills when you're breastfeeding, because I had been taking the odd one, but was annoyed with myself for telling the truth about Beconase. She explained that you have to use it twice a day, for two weeks, for it to have any effect. As I've tried it half-heartedly a couple of times, with no joy, I thought afterwards that I should've lied and gone for the next thing up, which would've been a steroid nasal spray.
But what do you know? I've been using it now for almost two weeks, and my nose is noticeably better than it was. I still use the strong stuff (Sudafed Mucus Relief is my current fix) occasionally, but I need it much less often.
This could in part be down to the other remedy I've been trying recently - local honey. That's the thing apparently, if it's been made by bees pollenating the precise plantlife that's causing your reaction. The catch is that it's been a very bad year for bees, too cold and wet (remember that weather?), so most small-scale beekeepers don't have much surplus. But I have laid my hands on some Ealing honey, from just a couple of miles away, and very delicious it is too in my morning coffee.
So my secret, guilty fantasy has turned out to be a damp squib. But another fantasy, of a much more wholesome and entirely fabulous kind, is alive and kicking, and I'm going to inspect it on Thursday.
A place called the Mermaid Maternity Retreat is opening this week, and I've written about it for a magazine coming out next month. It's basically the last word in luxury, and sensible treatments, for new mums and their babies.
It's the brainchild of Nick Balfour, father of four daughters (can you imagine? I can't) who got sick of shuttling all over London to see various random 'experts' recommended by friends, to try and sort out whatever thing that particular baby or childbirth experience was inflicting on them - a feeding expert here, a cranio person there, etc. You know the drill.
It's had a bit of bad press recently, and very unfairly in my view. Either you think it's a travesty that the NHS doesn't provide all this stuff as standard, or you think it's a flawed concept, but you can't have it both ways. Yes, it's expensive, but having forked out a fair amount after both my babies and clocked up many miles in the car, there is a logic to it. Especially if you can be sure that the people you're seeing are top of their fields.
Felix and I have been treated by their osteopath, I've had some reflexology, and I can vouch for both.
Some of the packages are actually quite good value - for example, for £200 you get two home visits from a feeding expert and can attend unlimited drop-in clinics. I spent £130 to see my breastfeeding expert in her home, half an hour away, and it was worth every penny.
But here's my secret fantasty about it: the idea of escaping to a plush bedroom, with a 24-hour nursery, an osteopath, feeding expert, reflexologist, paediatric osteopath and masseuse on hand, when Felix was, say, eight weeks old, I was going mad with sleep deprivation, Logie was throwing major tantrums, my back was killing me and I was totally at my wits' end...that prospect is so heavenly that I'm thinking of putting Felix (five months tomorrow) back in, so that I can go and stay there.
I'd have to wear a wig though. (Can you imagine how unpleasant that must be in this heat?) Because my hairline is receding so far it's not so much a widow's peak as a new mother's M-shape.
When my hair is back, if I tuck a loose middle bit behind my ear, you can actually see a small triangle of scalp behind that strand.
I worry because hair loss runs in my family, on the female side. But I think that a similar thing happened after I had Logie too, and some of it grew back, a bit. I have a vague memory of pointing out some baby-hair-type regrowth with relief.
Since then I've moved hairdressers, so I can't ask the current one what she remembers - and she's far too nice to say it was a problem anyway. She gave it a really good cut a few weeks ago, quite a good bit off, looked like there was a dead cat on the floor afterwards, and NO ONE has noticed.
That's probably because I always used to wear my hair up in a messy ponytail, regardless of whether it was newly cut, or clean. Because I hated the sensation of it on the back of my neck, when I was hot, or was rolling my sleeves up to tackle some laundry, or found myself stuck for small talk. Any excuse. But I've got the fear about something called traction alopecia, even though only people who have Croydon facelifts every day really have to worry about that.
But such is my concern that I've worn it down, determinedly, every day since then. Yes, even in this heat. Even at Felix's christening, when I was waltzing about at the side of the cricket pitch afterwards in 30 degrees, or hurtling down the bouncy castle obstacle course slide in an undignified manner.
It's been quite a challenge for me, as my compulsion to put my hair up is so automatic that I've had to break the habit by not ever having a hairtie on my wrist or in my bag. Which is jolly annoying. Especially when you're about to go swimming (the pool and the bath don't count).
Another addiction that I've been keeping secret for some time involves my nose. I am a nose spray junkie.
The thing is, I simply can't bear having a blocked up nose. It drives me mad. I feel like I can't do anything - eat, type, be nice to my children - if I can't breathe through my nose properly. Or sleep. Especially sleep. It's a bit like when I've taken my lenses out, or am wearing a pair of glasses that's the wrong prescription; if I can't see properly, I feel like I can't hear either.
There's always an excuse for it - a cold, pregnancy rhinitis, hayfever - but for a long time now I've been using those very strong nose sprays you can buy over the counter. Despite being fully aware that the more you use them, the more you bugger up your nose, and the more you need them. But like every good addict, I can't stop. I am dependent on it, even though I know it's part of the problem.
However, my hayfever has been dreadful this year. Lots of people are saying that, and some friends are experiencing it for the first time. My nose has been out of control with itching and congestion, I had to leave our summer party with our neighbours early because I couldn't stop sneezing, and sometimes even my eyes go too.
Added to which, I had a small sore patch inside one of my nostrils, obviously from my substance abuse. So I thought it was finally time to go to the GP and fess up.
You know when you have those sort of sad, dramatic fantasies about how something is going to turn out? They're usually confined to one's teenage years, but I have a penchant. Well, I had this idea that she was going to castigate me and send me to some specialist where the waiting room was full of cocaine enthusiasts, with collapsing noses.
Instead, she mildly pointed out that I shouldn't keep using it, said my nose was fine, and prescribed me over-the-counter hayfever pills (ceterizine, available to buy as Piriteze) and Beconase, an aqueous nasal spray for allergies. Actually she also wrote up a prescription for eyedrops as well, but when I questioned whether I could use them because I wear contact lenses she was quite taken aback, and said that no one had ever asked her about that in her whole career. Check with the pharmacist, she advised - who confirmed it was no go.
I was relieved to have her establish that there are no known harmful effects from taking hayfever pills when you're breastfeeding, because I had been taking the odd one, but was annoyed with myself for telling the truth about Beconase. She explained that you have to use it twice a day, for two weeks, for it to have any effect. As I've tried it half-heartedly a couple of times, with no joy, I thought afterwards that I should've lied and gone for the next thing up, which would've been a steroid nasal spray.
But what do you know? I've been using it now for almost two weeks, and my nose is noticeably better than it was. I still use the strong stuff (Sudafed Mucus Relief is my current fix) occasionally, but I need it much less often.
This could in part be down to the other remedy I've been trying recently - local honey. That's the thing apparently, if it's been made by bees pollenating the precise plantlife that's causing your reaction. The catch is that it's been a very bad year for bees, too cold and wet (remember that weather?), so most small-scale beekeepers don't have much surplus. But I have laid my hands on some Ealing honey, from just a couple of miles away, and very delicious it is too in my morning coffee.
So my secret, guilty fantasy has turned out to be a damp squib. But another fantasy, of a much more wholesome and entirely fabulous kind, is alive and kicking, and I'm going to inspect it on Thursday.
A place called the Mermaid Maternity Retreat is opening this week, and I've written about it for a magazine coming out next month. It's basically the last word in luxury, and sensible treatments, for new mums and their babies.
It's the brainchild of Nick Balfour, father of four daughters (can you imagine? I can't) who got sick of shuttling all over London to see various random 'experts' recommended by friends, to try and sort out whatever thing that particular baby or childbirth experience was inflicting on them - a feeding expert here, a cranio person there, etc. You know the drill.
It's had a bit of bad press recently, and very unfairly in my view. Either you think it's a travesty that the NHS doesn't provide all this stuff as standard, or you think it's a flawed concept, but you can't have it both ways. Yes, it's expensive, but having forked out a fair amount after both my babies and clocked up many miles in the car, there is a logic to it. Especially if you can be sure that the people you're seeing are top of their fields.
Felix and I have been treated by their osteopath, I've had some reflexology, and I can vouch for both.
Some of the packages are actually quite good value - for example, for £200 you get two home visits from a feeding expert and can attend unlimited drop-in clinics. I spent £130 to see my breastfeeding expert in her home, half an hour away, and it was worth every penny.
But here's my secret fantasty about it: the idea of escaping to a plush bedroom, with a 24-hour nursery, an osteopath, feeding expert, reflexologist, paediatric osteopath and masseuse on hand, when Felix was, say, eight weeks old, I was going mad with sleep deprivation, Logie was throwing major tantrums, my back was killing me and I was totally at my wits' end...that prospect is so heavenly that I'm thinking of putting Felix (five months tomorrow) back in, so that I can go and stay there.
Felix at his christening. (No, that's not my newly-let-down hair - that's my fat, wrinkly FACE.)
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