Ha! Thought that’d get your attention.

Whaddya mean, I don’t have a perfect body?! Well, maybe not quiiite yet. But I live in hope. We all do, amiright? And one way I’m going to get that ‘bikini body’ (just saying the words makes me shudder) is by drinking my breakfast, like a good girl. Yes you heard me correctly, I’m going to drink breakfast. No, no, no. Before you pack me off to rehab, I’m not talking gin and tonic in my water bottle to start the day with a smile…although that would certainly spice up my morning commute. No, I’m talking Nutribuddy: an organic blend of oats, flaxseeds, chia seeds, coconut and the flavouring of your choice. It’s gluten-free, dairy-free, lactose-free and vegan – and unlike other shakes I could mention…it’s not taste-free. It’s actually bursting with flavour. High five to that! Did I also mention that it contains no chemical nasties? None whatsoever. Well I never. Aren’t I the virtuous one all of a sudden? Just stick a halo on me and call me an angel. Or something.

Now we all know that us girls can be a little pushed for time in the mornings, eh? I mean, who has time for brekkie when there’s the important matter of transforming from The Beast into a Disney beauty in the space of half an hour or so (or is that just me)? Now, unless you can trade my makeup brushes for a magic wand, I’m gonna need allll the time and tricks of the trade in the bathroom rather than the kitchen. One peek in my house will confirm this – bathroom shelves: groaning, kitchen shelves: empty. Sure, I could skip the makeup and have breakfast…but I’d rather start the day the right way: with lipstick and mascara. Because nothing tastes as good as glamorous feels.

BUT a hungry girl is an angry girl…and so is an ugly one. So I’m going to take one minute each morning to mix three scoops of my Nutribuddy breakfast, mix with 300-400ml of milk, shake it to make it, and voila: breakfast in a flash.

You can use any kind of milk: skimmed…soya…almond is my new fave. Although I still have no idea how they milk an almond?* To be fair, I thought almonds only came in croissants until a week ago.

With Nutribuddy Breakfast I can leave the house feeling and looking my best, with no grumbling tummy that could (will!) leave me reaching for a calorific almond croissant and hot chocolate as I pass by the coffee shop (we’ve all been there – some of us more than others, granted). They know me by name at my local Starbucks, which is never a good thing when it comes to your bottom…or your bottom line (those snacks add up in both calories and money, girlfriend!)

You’ve heard the saying: “Fake it till you make it,” right? Put on your smile, hold your head high and pretend to be confident until one day you just are?

Well my new mantra is: “Shake it till you make it.” I’ll just shake the Nutribuddy in the shaker until I’ve made it (one minute)…then shake my booty until I get the confidence and the (until now) elusive bikini body (okay, this may take sliiiightly longer than a minute, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere, right?).

So I’ll be swerving the sugary morning snacks and shaking it till I make it. Will you?

Watch my Nutribuddy Breakfast vlog below to find out more… (And if you think this attempt is amateur you should see the 27 previous takes. There’s a lot of stuttering, swearing and giggles).

I have not been paid for this article, I was simply gifted the product in exchange for an honest review. I only write about products that I love and feel that my readers would be interested in too. If I don’t totally love a product rather than write a negative review I just won’t review it at all. Should you choose to follow these pink links in this post and buy from Nutribuddy I will receive 10% commission on the total purchase price, which goes towards the running costs of my blog. Thanks!

*SPOILER ALERT: Almond milk is basically made by blending almonds with water. Crazy, huh? If this blows your mind as much as it did mine, watch this. 

Anyway, I’m off to finish my shake – byeeee!

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Nutribuddy Breakfast: It’s Buddy Delicious! appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I beamed. “Oh great!”

I’d always been a reasonably studious schoolkid (I was in the A-stream at grammar school, dontcha know), so I’d come to expect no less than top marks from my body as well as my brain. Despite my loud Kentish accent, fair hair and six-foot stature, I’m no dumb blonde. So when the fertility doctor sat back in his swivel chair with a deep sigh and a furrowed brow, I was a little taken aback.

“Actually, it’s not great. Not great at all. A high FSH – that’s follicle stimulating hormone – test result is an indicator that your ovaries aren’t working as we’d expect for a woman of your age. We want a lower result. Imagine a car’s engine: you want it to purr along effortlessly, low revs. With your engine you’ve got your foot pressed hard on the accelerator, revving away…but you’re not getting anywhere….”

Oh.

That was near the start of my IVF journey, back in 2009, and was the shape of things to come: one disappointment after another; tiny victories followed by crashing, crushing, blows. My previous track record of good scores and good health were eradicated within months. Instead of High Achiever I now had a new, less impressive label on my records: Poor Responder. This less-than-desirable accolade is awarded to those who, like myself, have not responded as expected to the prescribed protocol.

The drugs, put simply, didn’t work.

Oh they did do something: mood swings, hot sweats, nosebleeds in the middle of the night. But my ovaries remained stubbornly, resolutely unresponsive. The doctors increased the drug dosages incrementally, reminiscent of an executioner turning up the voltage on an electric chair and standing back, waiting for the convict’s eyes to bulge and tongue to loll out. Higher and higher they went, until they reached the maximum legal dosage. Nothing. Scan after scan, pumped full of chemicals until I was bloated and uncomfortable like a duck being force-fed for the fois gras factory. But still my ovaries refused to play ball, producing only one or two substandard eggs instead of the fifteen or so that was desired – if not required – to increase the odds of a subsequent ‘live birth.’

Time and again, the doctors shook their heads forlornly and advised cancelling the precious cycle that we’d waiting months – no, years – for…and at each appointment we pleaded with them to continue: “Because it only takes one, right?”

Eventually, my husband and I conceded defeat and acknowledged reality: we’d never have a child of our own. Not only was my body not going to produce a baby, I was about to receive another killer blow from the specialist:

“You’ve experienced Premature Ovarian Failure. Your bloods now indicate negligible reproductive hormones and your egg supply is extremely low. I’m afraid you’re in the menopause.”

Premature menopause or Premature Ovarian Failure (during which periods can still occur, as was the case for me) is the name given to menopause occurring before the age of 40. The standard age for menopause is 51. By this point, at the end of 2011, I was 35; sixteen whole years below the average age. However, it’s likely that I’d been in this sorry state for a lot longer, having had previous gynaecological surgery to remove precancerous cells following a smear test (you can read about that here) at the turn of the century in my mid-twenties, and two more operations at the start of 2008, aged 32. During the final operation I’d been advised to have my damaged fallopian tubes removed (ironically, to improve the chances of IVF success), and it was probably at this point that the blood supply to the ovaries was permanently disrupted. Surgical removal of the ovaries (oopherectomy) is the primary cause of POF, although other causes include cancer, sterilisation, trauma and stress. For some women the cause is never known.

Looking back, I had a lot of the symptoms of menopause. Yet despite this diagnosis and long, meandering gynaecological history, my GP refused to acknowledge the need for HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) due to the (hotly debated) health risks and instead prescribed…antidepressants. Apparently this is common, as the symptoms are similar: low mood, brain fog, fatigue, low libido. But whilst SSRIs might tackle the mood aspects of premature menopause, they do nothing to counteract the flatlining hormone levels that can have a lifelong impact on vital aspects of a woman’s health: cardiovascular disease, cancer, bone loss leading to crippling osteoporosis, tooth loss, Alzheimer’s disease and ultimately, premature death. “Really?!” I thought to myself. “Is there no end of misery in store for me?” I was at my lowest ebb, and even contemplated suicide. I was well and truly broken, both mentally and physically, as I’ve written about here.

Finally, aged 37 and having suffered years of debilitating symptoms, I saw a sympathetic private specialist who prescribed combined oral cyclical (also known as sequential) HRT: oestrogen and progesterone. It was life-changing. I threw away the antidepressants that I’d been taking for almost two years and had an immediate new lease of life. The colour was finally switched back on after a long stint in a black-and-white world. It was too late for my fertility (and sadly my marriage) yet I felt the fog slowly lifting – and with it, a glimpse of the possibility of future happiness on the horizon that had hitherto felt impossible.

If you suspect premature menopause, don’t suffer in silence.

Premature Menopause Facts: 

• Premature menopause affects 1% of UK women.
• There is no cure for premature menopause or premature ovarian failure.
• Symptoms include: night sweats, disrupted sleep, mood swings, irritability, depression, low libido, weight gain and cognitive impairment (also known as ‘brain fog’).
• Pregnancy is still possible (if unlikely) during premature ovarian failure, and the woman may still be having periods. Women with POF are advised to use donor eggs during IVF, as the likelihood of IVF success with their own eggs is often as low as 5%.
• Premature menopause is often dismissed or misdiagnosed as depression. Insist on blood tests of hormone levels: FSH, LH, HCG and AMH for accurate diagnosis, taken on day 2-4 of your cycle.
• Risks of premature menopause if left untreated include cardiovascular disease, osteoporosis and low thyroid function.
• The main treatment to alleviate symptoms of menopause is HRT, although there is a slight suspected increased risk of stroke, breast cancer, ovarian cancer, womb cancer and heart disease. Benefits outweigh the risks at least upto the age of regular menopause (51).
• The different forms of hormone replacement include an oral tablet, pessaries, topical creams, gels, patches and the Mirena coil.
• Natural ways to protect health following a premature menopause diagnosis include getting plenty of calcium in the diet, exercising regularly, maintaining an ideal weight, increasing exposure to sunlight for vitamin D and bone health, stopping smoking (big tick for me on this) and reducing alcohol intake (erm, I’m still working on this one).
• Herbal alternatives include Black Cohosh, St John’s Wort, Evening Primrose Oil, Ginseng and soya products.
• If your GP is unsympathetic you are entitled to register with another doctor of your choice, not just the one in closest proximity to your address, under NHS Patient Choices guidelines. 

Online support:

• The Daisy Network. A patient-run support group based in UK.
• The Dovecote founded by Kelly Da Silva.
• Gateway Women founded by Jody Day.
• Premature Ovarian Failure Support Group.
• Facebook groups – plenty! Just search under Premature Ovarian Failure.
• The Non-Mum Network. A support group for women without children for whatever reason (founded by yours truly!).

Further reading:

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Menopause At 35 Turned My Life Upside Down appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

G’Day Birds Eye Viewers!How are you all on this dull February morning?Now, those of you who know me personally and not just via the blog will already know that I’m something of a motormouth. I have a tendency towards being pretty full on: turbo-charged and as nutty as a tray of Ferrero’s at the Ambassador’s Reception. Some of you may remember my previous podcast recorded with Washington DC-based podcasters Sip And Shine.

Trying to get a word in edgeways when I’m on one is no mean feat…as Mike Douglas, creator of the mental health podcast Mike’s Open Journal, was about to find out, when he invited me onto his show to talk about my experiences with mental health issues, specifically in relation to infertility, IVF and marriage breakdown, as described in this blog post…

                              
Having had his own experience of mental health issues and also a marriage breakdown and no children, Mike and I have plenty in common. Unfortunately what we don’t have in common is the same calm and controlled style of speech, so listening to Mike’s even and lilting tone will be soothing and easy to listen to; my own hyper and breathless babbling…not so much.

I wonder which one’s me…? photo credit

So apologies for the frantic pace of my chatter – oh, and the fact that I sound like Pat Butcher from Eastenders…and say “yeah” a thousand times. Believe it or not, despite the mile-a-minute rambling, I actually don’t like the sound of my own voice that much. Let’s just say I make Bianca Jackson sound posh.

Anyway, thanks for listening! I hope I don’t send your blood pressure soaring and you can listen with a nice cuppa, and not require a vodka and a fistful of statins to get through the hour-long episode….

 To listen to the podcast click here




Listen to Mike’s other episodes 
Follow Mike’s Open Journal on Twitter

Who, me? I don’t know what you mean… photo credit

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post I’m a guest on Mike’s Open Journal Podcast appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

photo credit

“I got chiiills, they’re multiplyin’…..”

Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch into a rousing rendition of Better Shape Up from Grease – not least because with a slight hint of a ‘tache and pasty un-made-up face I look more like Danny than Sandy right now. No, I’ve got chills because I’m sick.

Since we live in a ridiculous time when “sick” can now mean both violently ill and also amazingly cool, allow me to clarify: I’m sick in the old-fashioned sense. Did you really think a forty-something woman would be using the word in the new trendy slang way? Nah. That would not be “sick”…that would be embarrassing.

Sam…or Slimer?

So I’m sitting in my bed, bolstered by pillows and cushions to keep me bolt upright, since whenever I tilt even a few degrees to one side I leak snot like some kind of Ghostbusters blobby thing oozing ectoplasm, when it suddenly occurs to me: I’ve not been ill for ages. Sure, I’ve had the odd hangover, but that’s entirely self-inflicted and doesn’t exactly classify as illness; I mean, anyone who downs wine, jäger bombs and cocktails over the course of a lively evening hardly expects (or deserves) to wake up feeling full of beans, right?

No, what just struck me was how rarely I feel as rubbish as I do now, which is as an extra from Thriller might do (i.e freshly dug up) and ergo, how lucky I am. I can’t remember the last time I had a day off sick from work. Certainly not in the last two years (and I’m not about to start now: no-one likes a Sicknote). Health is something we all simply take for granted…until it’s not there.

Just as we don’t really appreciate our parents when we’re kids – the endless dinners prepped, expensive trainers, school trips, dad being our personal taxi service, ferrying us about (mine still does sometimes – cheers Pops) – we also don’t always appreciate feeling “normal”…until we don’t. It’s just taken as a given that we feel fine, thus allowing plenty of time to focus on the big stuff – like the size of Kim K’s ass, Queen Bey’s baby news, or our mutual loathing of Trump.

So this post contains no big revelation; it’s just a simple expression of gratitude for my health. I’m not particularly religious, so I’m not quite sure who I’m addressing it to – not God, exactly. The Universe?

It’s the same when it comes to discussing the ageing process. Of course I’d love to be gazelle-like (or maybe Gisele-like?) forever – springing about all plumped and pumped with the vigour of youth – but getting older is actually something to be proud of. I spend my days peddling “anti-ageing” products in my job as a beauty boutique manager – it’s big business – but why are we so ashamed of getting older? Yes, I’d rather look like Bambi than a taxidermist’s mishap, but a lived-in face shows character and experience. It says: “Oh I could tell you a story or two…..” delivered with a sly, crinkly-eyed wink

photo credit

I reckon we need to change our attitudes towards ageing. I mean, we made it this far – so many don’t. The alternative to getting old…is not getting old at all. I know plenty of amazing people whose lives were cruelly snatched like a rug from beneath their feet long before their time – some in their twenties and thirties or even younger.

Of course I bemoan the crow’s feet when I look in the mirror as much as the next person, but the overwhelming feeling is gratitude that I’m actually still here. I’ve put my body through a lot over the years, but still it soldiers on and serves me well (even if it is starting to creak and click a bit in protest).

So although from the outside it might look like a sorry scene in my bedroom this Sunday afternoon: me slumped in bed during the day clad in fox-print peejays (well Andy did say to “buy yourself something foxy”) accessorised with a big red bulbous hooter, sore from being blown umpteen times – I’m actually feeling decidedly upbeat.

Feeling bleugh: Netflix and a chill

I might on the surface of things be feeling fifty shades of meh; the scene more “Netflix and chills” than chill, but underneath the mountains of Kleenex and trashy magazines is an ashen-faced 40-something who’s actually bloody grateful.
Grateful that this is just a cold.
Grateful that in a few days I’ll be right as rain.
Grateful that by next weekend I’ll be back to drinking wine and dancing with friends and taking my health for granted all over again….

About last weekend…clubbing with the gorgeous JenKat

But in the meantime, I’m just chillin’.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Netflix and Chills appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

With my brain still pickled from celebrating (commiserating?) a recent landmark birthday, and having dashed straight from a two-day business conference, it’s fair to say that I arrive for my appointment at The Floatworks feeling somewhat frazzled. I’ve been burning my 40-year-old candle at both ends and despite my best efforts with the make-up, it shows.I get off the rammed Victoria Line tube at Vauxhall and head straight for my float session, tired feet aching in towering heels, and am relieved to discover it’s merely a stone’s throw from the station, nestled amongst plush residential apartments in St George Wharf.I am greeted by two fresh-faced, smiling young staff, who shake my hand warmly and politely introduce themselves, before offering me some water and a comfy seat and handing me a health and safety sheet to read. There is a pleasant aroma wafting throughout and a flat screen TV on the wall plays hypnotic psychedelic patterns enhanced by chilled background music, which all contribute to the relaxed ambiance.

“How deep is the water?….And how much salt?” I ask skeptically, contemplating the enormous corporate buffet I inhaled at lunchtime. It’s gonna take a whole load of epsom salts to get THIS body a-floatin’….

Soon, my pod is ready and I’m led into a room where my i-Sopod awaits. Sounds futuristic? Well, it looks it too : a huge shiny egg with a lightweight lid sits surrounded by a calming blue light. The water inside is around 25cm deep, and about half a kilo of magnesium-rich Epsom salts are added to create a super-buoyant detox soup.

I need all the kidney cleansing I can get right now, so I take a quick shower and hop right in, slowly lowering the lid on my watery tomb. I have reservations that the pod will feel as claustrophobic as a coffin, but to my relief it’s actually very spacious, and the high curved roof contributes to the airy feel. The water is so salty that it’s impossible to lay on the bottom, and I instantly bob on the surface like a careworn rubber duck.

During the first ten minutes the lights gradually dim and soft music is played which fades out whilst I adjust to my surroundings, until I’m left floating in the pitch darkness. Initially, I’m lying rigid with my arms stiff by my sides, but as my tense limbs become accustomed to the sensation I start to unfurl and I’m soon star-shaped and weightless.

As the water is body temperature and I’m engulfed in blackness, it’s impossible to feel which parts of your body are submerged, and I have to physically touch them to find out. Fortunately, for a die-hard make-up wearer such as myself, there’s no danger of your face getting wet. I already removed my face make-up in the shower, but this means I don’t have to worry about panda eyes with mascara ending up somewhere around my knees, plus you’re advised to dry your face before entering the pod. With this level of saltiness, you’re certainly not going to want to get it in your eyes, much less ingest any!

Similarly, if you have any cuts it’s sure going to sting, so those thoughtful reception staff hand you a few packs of petroleum jelly at the outset to apply to those areas. Shaving your legs (or any other area for that matter!) beforehand is a definite no-no.  However, these pre-float precautions are worth the effort, as the benefits of soaking in this high concentration of Epsom salts seem endless: from eliminating migraines to lowering blood pressure, reducing stress levels, improving circulation, concentration, reducing toxins – the list goes on…

I’m no hippified yoga bunny, quite the reverse, so I’m hardly expecting some transcendental spiritual experience – and none comes – but I am acutely aware of both my heartbeat and breathing slowing considerably.

I’m sure meditation experts can zone out and reach a higher plane, but for an uninitiated stress monkey like me it may take a little practise. I’m sure with regular visits even I could learn to reach that level of zen, such is the calming womb-like environment. After a while, my aching muscles feel less tense, my head clearer. I haven’t had a single urge to check Facebook for almost an hour now, so something strange is definitely happening to me….

I’m happily floating about contemplating life when, to my astonishment, the ching-ching tunes start up and the blue lights gradually come on, indicating I have five minutes left of my hour-long session.

I reluctantly climb out of my pod and enjoy a hot shower, availing myself of the delicious complimentary toiletries. Then it’s time for a quick tidy-up in the Hollywood room using the turbo-powered hairdryers and GHDs. I’m offered a free herbal tea on the beanbags in the chill-out area, but alas, I have to dash, which I do as quickly as my blissed-out bod will allow. Back at Victoria Station there are delays and an accompanying level of travel chaos which would usually make my blood boil, but to my surprise I struggle to even raise a frown.

Finally home, I sleep like a baby and wake up in the morning with the soft skin of one too, which is an unexpected added bonus. Floating has never before been on my health radar, but I think from now on I will be making space in my diary for it. This is one item on my to-do list I definitely won’t be pushing to the bottom….

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Whatever Floats Your Boat appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Working in the beauty industry in London in the late nineties and early noughties was a close-knit, glamorous affair. I use the word ‘affair’ partly because the relationship between employer and employee tended to be a short-lived love story: we fell in love with a brand, threw ourselves wholeheartedly into selling their wares, then like the fickle young things we were, we’d soon fall out of love and move onto the next exciting company in the department store’s beauty hall. Thus grew this incestuous community of bouffanted babes, where everyone knew everyone and it wasn’t uncommon to see the same faces work their way from one counter to the next over the course of a few years, each time building up their contacts book, boosting their CVs and getting a change of scene and a cheeky pay increase into the bargain.Dickens and Jones, Harvey Nicks, Barkers of Kensington – we touted our make-up skills and fragrance knowledge around them all, but my favourite of the lot was Selfridges. A hip and bustling cosmetic hall crammed with carefully-coiffed glossy young consultants, we’d have to shout above the pounding beats of the music, different tunes coming from various counters in a kind of controlled chaos: tall, slender model-esque reps offering fragrance strips doused in the latest heady scents to passing shoppers, make-up artists applying red lips here, brushing on mascara there; it was a veritable beauty playground set against a house music backdrop as DJs spun tunes in the neighbouring Spirit fashion section. The social scene that came with working with hundreds of like-minded young people was as buzzing as the atmosphere in the store itself, and club promoters came by on a daily basis handing out passes for free entry or discounted drinks at all the hippest clubs. My fellow beauty buddies and I fell into a familiar pattern: selling high-end beauty products by day, partying at night.

One particular party-loving pal of mine was Lorraine (Lolly) Mack – a 30 year old effervescent blonde bombshell, whose larger-than-life personality and striking looks earned her notoriety on the beauty and clubbing circuits. Being blessed with a banging bod meant she’d also done a spot of glamour modelling and had appeared in various publications such as FHM and The Sun as well as a TV show on Sky1.

One night in March 2004, I’d been invited to Pacha nightclub in Victoria by a friend of mine, so Lolly and I decided to make a night of it and take our respective beaus along too – I was engaged to Liam, and Lorraine had an Italian boyfriend who was over for the weekend. Lolly was tired on the day and considered dropping out, but after a few drinks in Islington we were all buzzing off each other’s energy (and possibly a few cheeky shots) and in high spirits took a taxi to the club. What happened next changed Lorraine’s life forever.

Laughing and joking, we bantered with the bouncers before being ushered into the blackness of the club, our bodies reverberating from the heavy bass of the music. We queued for the cloakroom, bought drinks at the bar, then Liam and I left Lolly and her boyfriend near the bar whilst we nipped upstairs to find the rest of our mates.

Unbeknownst to us as we passed by the crowds on the balcony above, a heavily-built young guy (who was high on drink and drugs) was about to come over the balcony into the crowd of tightly-packed revellers below……landing directly onto Lorraine.
Instantly, her spinal cord was severed at the fourth vertebrae from the top, rendering her immediately quadriplegic. In that split-second her life, as she knew it, was over.

When Liam and I came back downstairs a few minutes later we saw a commotion and a crowd gathered around someone on the floor. Everything went into slow motion as it dawned on us that it was our friend, and that she wasn’t moving. We fought through the crowd, shouting over the music, pleading with her to get up. But it was no use. She knew instantly what had happened, that she was paralysed. All she could do was blink helplessly. We raced to hospital where Lorraine had emergency surgery involving taking bone from her hip and putting it into her neck to secure it.

When your phone rings in the middle of the night it’s often accompanied with a sense of dread, and as we sat alongside her Mum and two elder brothers Tony and Gary in the waiting room we were all numb with shock, unable to take in the enormity of the fate that had befallen our Lolly.

When we set off for a night’s clubbing, none of us could have known that Lorraine would not return home for the next 10 months, those long dark days spent instead at the specialist spinal hospital Stoke Mandeville, surrounded by other patients for whom life had also dealt a terrible hand.  One such patient who became a friend to Lorraine was Dan Nicholls, an 18-year-old boy paralysed by a freak wave whilst enjoying a day at Bondai Beach, whose father would later go on to set up The Nicholls Spinal Injury Foundation.

During those unspeakably tough early days of her injury Lorraine’s thoughts were dark, even asking her brothers to take her to the Dignitas Clinic in Zurich to end her life. It was during this period that her brother Tony started researching possible treatments online, desperate to help his beloved sister.

“We can give up, Lorraine, or we can fight this together until we find a cure and get you walking again.”

This marked the turning point, and since then Lolly and her family have campaigned tirelessly to raise funds towards finding a cure. Despite being paralysed from the neck down, Lorraine still endured constant chronic pain all over her body in the form of burning pins and needles, and needed a cocktail of 18 different drugs each day which left her bloated and did little to alleviate her daily agony.

Twelve years on, and today Lorraine is a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak prognosis. Despite doctors telling her early on that she’d never move again she cranks up the dance music, flips on her disco lights and undergoes four gruelling hours of intense physiotherapy each day with the help of her carers, and consequently has some movement in both arms. Although she is unable to grip with her hands, she can use her phone, laptop and has even learnt to apply her own make-up again. She retains her love of fashion, music, modelling and travelling the world, and her treatment and quest for a cure have led her as far afield as Miami, LA, Italy and Brazil.

Her relationship with her boyfriend came to an end, but now she’s found true love in the form of a 29 year old LA-based hunk, to whom she’s been engaged for a year after meeting at a mutual friend’s house two years ago.

The man who landed on Lorraine was given a two year sentence, but Lolly doesn’t dwell on the facts of the night, instead remaining focused on her mission to walk again.

She is now completely drug-free, having gone cold turkey from all the meds after ten years, a feat which impressed ex-addict Russell Brand when she bumped into him in her local, causing him to remark that that was probably more difficult than stopping his well-documented heroin use. The bloating caused by the medication disappeared, taking her back to a slinky size eight and today she is as strikingly attractive as ever – her slim figure in contrast to her huge personality, raucous laughter and Barbara Windsor-style cheeky cockney character.

She’s done a tandem skydive which raised £3k for Spinal Research, completed countless ‘virtual cycles’ for SCI (Spinal Cord Injury) charities including a whopping 285 miles London to Paris bike ride with the aid of her FES (Functional Electrical Stimulation) bike, and is currently about to take part in the WFL (Wings For Life)  World Run in Milan, which her brother Tony will be running whilst pushing her in her wheelchair. She’ll be dressed in a pink ensemble complete with wings alongside her four Italian fellow ‘Cure Girls’ – a group of fiesty women from around the world, all of whom have suffered a spinal cord injury and are therefore campaigning to raise awareness and money for SCI charities.

Lorraine fundraises continuously for various charities including Spinal Research and The Nicholls Spinal Injury Foundation. These charities receive zero government funding despite around 40,000 people currently living with paralysis in the UK at a cost of £1billion a year, and help fund vital research. For the first time in history scientists have recorded the reconnection of severed long spinal nerve fibres by using the patient’s own stem cells to create a “bridge” over which the damaged connections can grow back, resulting in one paralysed man being able to take his first tentative steps.

When I think back to that fateful night in 2004, my heart lurches when I picture the pair of giggling carefree girls who entered the club and the tragic events that led to only one of us walking out of there again.

The very definition of girl power, I’m filled with admiration for my pal, who overcomes adversity and chronic neuropathic pain on a daily basis in her steely determination to walk again. She remains bubbly and positive, despite losing ten friends over the years as a result of their SCI – either through suicide or health complications relating to their injuries. (Don’t be fooled by the glamorous shots – her own list of ailments is extensive, from bladder infections, to scoliosis, osteoporosis and pressure sores).

I’m sure you’ll agree that her mental and physical strength and stamina make Lolly Mack a true inspiration, and if anyone can get back on the dancefloor, it’s her.

You can visit Lolly’s blog at www.curegirls.wordpress.com, sponsor her at www.justgiving.com/lorrainemack or visit her website www.lollymack.com. See www.spinal-research.org and www.nsif.org.uk for more details on SCI, the research taking place and how you can help. Photography by Michelle George, www.michellegeorgephotography.com

This article has also appeared at Huffington Post UK.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

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