Shit happens

I've no idea what if those of you living outside the UK are being bombarded with health advice at the moment. It feels as if our government, our broadcasters, our newspapers are conspiring to remind us that our bodies are temples and we should treasure them.

Or maybe they've only just realised than an aging populating means an increasingly frail population which could strain our health service beyond its ability to deliver adequate care. And so those us of us with bus passes must be reminded how to look after ourselves for as long as possible and thus reduce the strain on the public purse. Or am I being too cynical here?

I've no problem with the occasional reminder to eat well and maybe move about a bit. There may be people who don't realise that a diet of cake and chips and alcohol isn't the best. They may spend their lives flopping about on the sofa and not realise that walking upstairs occasionally, even if it makes them puff, is a Good Thing.

But I've had such advice rammed down my throat a bit recently - and some has even come with the implication that 'keeping myself young' (whatever that means) is a protection from the disease of aging.

Which diseases of aging did they reference particularly? Arthritis and cancer.

And that's where my hackles rise. I have arthritis - not because I don't eat my greens, but because my grandmother had arthritis and I climb mountains. One day I'll need expensive new knees, though I'll  keep myself going for as long as possible.

But the implications for cancer sufferers makes me even crosser. I know people with cancer, who have had cancer, or are half-expecting a diagnosis. Are the health-advisers seriously suggesting that this is their fault?

As I understand it, there is a statistical connection between living in an affluent society and cancer rates. That's a statistic - not a cause. We understand the origins of some cancers (like skin), but others need much more research before we can pin-point causes. And yet some bod on the telly feels we need reminding us to eat our broccoli and skip about a bit because if we don't we'll get cancer and it might (note that 'might' - enough to make the implication but not enough to be sued if they've got it wrong) be our own fault.

Shit happens. It can happen to anyone. The least constructive response to the cancer-shit is to make someone feel guilty.

Taking my knees walkabout.

A while ago I posted a dilemma - my knees were rebelling, and I had to decide if I should nurse them at home this winter, or risk being stuck in a jungle if they went on strike.

I took the sensible course. (What? Sensible! Not willingly, I must add. Nagged by sensible daughters who would have to sort me out if the worse happened. I take their point - they have jobs, families, cannot drop everything to fly across the world to rescue me from something I could have predicted in the first place.)

So I have had x-rays and seen the bone-person. I won't go into him looking young - at least I didn't ask him if he's started shaving yet. More importantly - he listened. And he didn't even flinch when I mentioned tottering around unlikely places with a rucksack.

He told me I have arthritis (which I knew) and that both knees are probably beyond tinkering with. 'We could give you arthroscopies, but in your case there is a chance it doesn't work and could even make things considerably worse,' he said.

'I'm not ready to give up my lifestyle,' I said.

'If course you're not.'

(Hurrah!! He's not assuming I'll retreat into a corner with my cocoa!)

'So,' he went on, 'I'll give you steroid injections to help the pain for now. (Ow!) We'll sort some physio to keep the muscles in good trim around the knees - which should keep you going for a while. Eventually we'll give you new knees - starting on the left.'

'So can I go to Madagascar this winter?' I explained about carrying a rucksack, and he asked reasonable questions about weight and distance.

And then he said, 'You go. You'll have less pain in the warmth anyway. But you might need to pass on ten mile hikes - sit on a beach with a book instead; and, if you can, get other people to carry heavy things for you. Then we'll see how you are in the spring and operate if you are still in pain.' (The subtext - I can't make them any worse. So I might just as well take them travelling as sit at home feeling sorry for myself. And then he'll sort me out so I can carry on travelling year after year!)

So - Madagascar this winter, I thought. Raced off to buy the Lonely Planet.

Except that isn't going to be as straightforward as I'd thought - so I'll let you into my tortuous thinking about where to go in my next post.

But the main news is - me and my knees will be off again this winter! Yippee!