One Man's Threat to World Health?

A man wearing a suit and tie sitting in his office looks as respectable as any other well-educated member of staff attending to his duties. Except that this guy is quite famous - or rather infamous - as he's in full command of a strong military force, at this moment, in full progress in invading a small sovereign state.

St Michael's Church, Kyiv, Ukraine. 

And so, thoughts are going around whether the invasion into Ukraine by Russian forces is just a start of a westward expansion, and as one Facebook friend contributed in a discussion, President Vladimir Putin's real intention would be to extend his forces as far West as Lisbon, the capital city of Portugal on the Atlantic coast, thus transforming the whole of the Eurasian bloc into one revived Soviet State. 

But that was just one friend's speculation on social media. How near to the truth, or far from it, only time would tell. Also whether the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation or NATO would flex its own muscles to defend its territories, or would it just sit there, powerless to do anything while the enemy's pride and determination are inflated further.

And so the newspapers, especially The Daily Mail lead its readers to believe that we're on the brink of World War Three, a situation comparable to 1939. But then again, such a newspaper has a habit of adding extra colour to specific events, especially on the coming spell of inclement weather. After all, the whole object of the newspaper industry is to sell.

Just to imagine an advert identical to the 1914 poster featuring the image of Lord Kitchener pointing his finger directly at every passerby, with the words, Britons Needs You! appearing at every street corner. If I had read this correctly, I think there was a General who suggested that if a global war were to break out, mandatory conscription may be on the cards. After all, most Ukrainian men aged between 18 and 60, both in the military and civilians, are called to fight the invading Russian forces, and a large percentage seem willing to comply.

If any of this is true (and I can't verify this at the moment) - I'm wondering how the Millenial generation here in the UK would handle such calling. Furthermore, we "Baby Boomers" - at present in 2022, aged between 57-74 years, would be considered the luckiest generation ever to exist, living out full, war-free lives. As most of our generation are either pensioners or soon to retire, perhaps we'll be regarded as the most hated generation by those younger than us, as they would likely be more eligible for conscription.

With up to 76 years since the end of WW2, I'm wondering whether our present Western society is more averse to the possibility of warfare. Does just the thought of running towards the enemy with a powerful gun under your arm send shivers down the spine? Or, to the contrary, keen enough to apply to be sent abroad to fight? News of this came to light during the Gulf War of the early 1990s. Many who were unemployed or from mundane, dead-end, or boring jobs actually applied for posts at the Army Recruitment Centre across the country with the specific aim to be sent to the Gulf. Unfortunately for them, our forces don't send their recruits abroad without months of adequate training here at home, thus dashing their hopes for immediate adventure.

Maybe they had a point. Tales of comradeship and a strong sense of camaraderie among troops are sometimes shared with the public, the level of loyalty towards each other which just doesn't exist in an office environment. It looks to me that such camaraderie is vital for the team's morale when fighting the enemy. This, along with the added sense of adventure and daring in an unfamiliar environment. Not so much for patriotism as for personal excitement.

But other stories of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, began to percolate into our media, sometimes via the BBC news bulletins. Nothing new here. I recall the late sixties and into the seventies, especially during college days of 1968-1970. As I walked through the streets of London, I came across many "tramps" or the homeless. Most of them were elderly men, war veterans who fought in WW2 and had returned with PTSD, back then the malady unrecognised by health professionals, as they sat, begging for money from passersby and often sloshed with rum, whisky, or even methylated spirits. And one musician, Ralph McTell, wrote his song, Streets of London, in 1969, during my college days, and it was released as a single in 1974. The most striking was the fourth verse which reads:

Have you seen the old man outside the seaman's mission -

Memory fading with the medal ribbons that he wears -

And in the winter city, The rain cries a little pity -

For one forgotten hero, and a World that doesn't care -

It's the kind of song that jars my thoughts into their proper place, to see that I am so fortunate to be born not long after the War, and never had to suffer from warfare experiences. Yet, I can't help feeling for those who chose to fight in the 1914-1918 Great War. There, in the trenches in Northern France and Belgium, during the bitter winter cold and snow, men crouched as they fired their guns across to the enemy, while the hostile bullets whizzes past their heads, and never knowing who was next to take his last breath. Death remained imminent, especially for those on the firing line. Little wonder their adrenal glands were working harder than normal, constantly pumping out adrenaline into the bloodstream, inviting illnesses of all kinds, including PTSD.

The original 1914 Kitchener's Poster.

To some of these men, it got too much:

 

Stress >> Emotional turmoil >> Adrenalene >> PTSD >> Panic.*

But PTSD wasn't recognised by any doctors of the day and therefore the malady was branded as cowardice, and thus treated accordingly. Many were shot by their own superiors, and they were buried without their names appearing on any cenotaphs or other memorials for the next century.

Therefore, I can say thank goodness that the medical world has come a long way in recognising this malady! I have watched how veterans are now treated with greater sympathy than their predecessors were.

Perhaps I need to ask myself, what is the Christian point of view? I should I perceive this whole shenanigan? Maybe, I could think back to the exile of the Jews to Babylon in 586 BC under King Nebuchadnezzar. According to the Biblical prophets, the main reason why the Jews had to go into exile was due to their ongoing rebellion against God and his laws. Maybe it could also be the reason why the Russian president was allowed to rise to power and then fulfil his heart's desire without or with little resistance. Thus the realisation of forthcoming world war could shock some to turn to God.

Many around the world are turning to prayer. And that includes a video of a group of Ukrainian men assembling at a metro station to worship God. To the atheist and the unbeliever, prayer looks to be utterly useless against a man of such a high calibre as Vladimir Putin. But one has only to look back at WW2. As Adolf Hitler and his German forces were about to invade Britain, the whole nation fell on its knees, praying to God for deliverance. Soon after, Hitler decided to delay the UK invasion for some reason. For this decision, the Fuhrer eventually suffered defeat by the Allies.

Just as I need to remind myself that power-crazy dictators often suffer despicable deaths. I can name three straight off the board - Adolf Hitler who committed suicide, Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein and Lybian president Muammar Gaddafi were both lynched by their own people. Whether Putin will be dethroned by his own people, will stand trial or even executed, is something we can only wait and see, as there are rumours that not the whole of the Russian population is behind Putin's move to invade Ukraine. Let alone most of the world's leaders. However, one issue is certain: God is much bigger than President Putin.

This morning, with the possible threat of war troubling my mind, I had my usual coffee at Starbucks with a newspaper in front. The bar was far busier than usual, with long queues and occupied seating. Mind you, the sky was cloudless (for once) the sun was out, and the feeling of Spring was in the air. I tend to believe that this morning's weather had more likely brought out the people to enjoy a stint at Starbucks, rather than the ongoing gloomy news bulletins. How everyone around thought or believed, only each one knows. Did any have faith in God? Or in the European Union? Or in NATO? Or even in the courage of the Ukrainians themselves to fight against the Russians? Or simply shut the bad news out of their minds, forgetting it all? Whatever it might have been, or a combination of factors, just about everyone around me was happy, chatty, and sociable.

No doubt, far better for national health than if everyone shivered in their shoes with fear, worry, and tension. Had national fear had gripped us all, think of  all the adrenaline constantly being pumped into so many bloodstreams, eventually causing illness of some kind, whether it'll be mental or emotional distress, bringing loss of appetite, a lowering of the immune system, vulnerability to all infections, even overeating and weight gain - or more serious illnesses such as headaches, cancer, heart failure, colitis, organ inflammation, arthritis, high blood pressure, kidney disease, back pain, rheumatism, insanity, dementia, and many other diseases.**

Thus, it could be said that such fears and anxieties could eventually overwhelm the National Health Service here in Britain. All by just one man in Moscow! 

To many, prayer is a complete waste of energy made by a few who are addle-headed and living in a fairytale world of Young-Earth Creationism and pseudoscience fantasies. But here, I just would like to mention a prophecy found in the Old Testament of the Bible, the book so highly ridiculed by atheists.***

St Basil's Cathedral, Moscow.

It concerns Gog, or Rosh, the prince of Meshech and Tubal, in the land of Magog. That, during the latter days, after all the Jews have returned to their homeland after suffering a worldwide scattering, a greedy thought will enter the mind of its "king" to lead his troops to plunder the land of Israel of all its wealth. The location of Magog is also given, which is directly far north of Israel. Bible scholars and historians have identified the names of Rosh, Meshech and Tubal as Russia, Moscow and Tobolsk respectively. As they make their invasion, still in the future from our timeframe, God will intervene to protect Israel, which is the apple of his eye. In those days, anyone who turns his face against Israel will end up in serious trouble.

Isn't this prophecy so strikingly similar to our present set of circumstances? Is the Bible true after all?

Turning to God in prayer and for deliverance is the best move any nation, church, family, and individual can make. Not only history has shown that it had worked before, but such prayer will prove beneficial to one's health.

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*For more on this, see one of my previous blogs by clicking here.

**Dr S.I. McMillen, MD, None of These Diseases, 1963, 1980, Lakeland Publishers.

***Ezekiel, chapters 38-39.

Risks Can Be Richly Rewarding.

Lately, I have been reading about how our Prime Minister Boris Johnson is planning to "burn all the Covid restrictions in the bonfire." That is, no longer having to self-isolate if tested positive for Covid, doing away with all mandatory mask-wearing, and the scrapping of free lateral tests. I thought I would witness a sense of national rejoicing, a resounding "Hurrah!" Instead, according to a poll, it looks like the majority of participants are more cautious, along with the scientists who make up SAGE, or Strategic Advisory Group of Experts, warning us all that this move towards pre-pandemic freedom was decided too soon.

Mt Huashan Trail leading to a monastery, China. Er, No!

Maybe it's this adverse to risk or the Woke culture, especially among those born after 1990, who knows. But here in the UK, where restrictions are comparatively liberal compared with other countries, I have seen facemasks worn outside in the street or one worn by a solo car driver. Or on one recent occasion, watching a graduate I knew, socialising maskless with a group of maskless men around a table at a leisure centre, then donning his mask as he rose to leave the group to make for the exit - after all, he should be cautious not to raise the risk in infecting any passerby...

Maybe it's just me. However, with this leisure centre chap, along with those wearing their masks in the breezy open-air or driving a car without any passengers, together with the warning from SAGE not to lift all restrictions whatsoever, warning us that the infection rate could rise by 80% if complete freedom were to be ushered in - indeed, all these fears, anxieties and sense of caution hangs on one word - Could.

Indeed, a new vaccine-resistant variant could infect the population, bringing death to up to 30% of those affected. Maybe a dangerous variant that has the potential to wipe out all mankind could arise from a Covid mutation.

Like the time I flew across the Atlantic. The plane could have suffered engine trouble or the pilot suffered a heart attack, and we all could have been in big trouble! Or what about the time, in 1978, to make a snap decision to hike the Bright Angel Trail to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and spend the night there? And a repeat hike in 1995?

During those hikes, I could have suffered dehydration, I could have been bitten by a rattlesnake, I could have fallen off the edge and plunged to my death in the ravine. I could have suffered cardiac arrest, I could have suffered from heatstroke, or I could have simply collapsed with exhaustion. After all, back in 1978, I was overtaken by three mules whilst still on the trail. The first mule was ridden by the park ranger. The second beast had some luggage on its back, while the third carried an exhausted female hiker. As with all hikers, I had to stand aside and allow the mules to amble past. Such a scenario could befall anyone taking on the challenge of the trail and facing potential hazards.

With all these possibilities, perhaps I should have stayed at home. One interesting scenario occurred whilst dining with some church-going friends at a restaurant. This was just before I flew out to New York in 1995. I made known to them that my main intention for visiting the States was to hike the Canyon. One mate gasped, But what about the rattlesnakes there? Implying: You're foolish to hike down into the Canyon. It's way too risky!

To which I replied, If I was to think in the same vein as you, I would never even leave the house!

I wonder whether this averse to risk is the reason why nearly all Christian singles I had known personally preferred escorted holidays, especially with a Christian firm such as Oak Hall? Or as one of my friends will be going with - the more upmarket firm Richmond's. 

I have nothing against escorted tours. In fact, during 2006, whilst on holiday with Alex my wife, we booked a day's ranger-led coach tour of the island of Lanzarote in the Canaries. I wanted to see more of the island than just the beach hotel we stayed at. And we did not have a car that many tourists hire at the airport. The tour was well-organised and included lunch at a large dining hall, not unlike a school or conference canteen. We've experienced some very interesting attractions, such as a pond that was deep within a lava tunnel, a decorative pool used only by the King of Spain, and some spectacular caves, along with one or two other points of interest, including wine tasting.

The whole holiday was a package. That is, both flights and the hotel were booked beforehand in one package, and we as clientele were looked after. But great as that holiday was, something was lacking. It didn't fit my kind of character.

Grand Canyon Hike, 1995. Colorado River.

For me, there is something about risk-taking that I find inspiring. For example, as a neophyte traveller outside Europe in 1976, I amazed many at my workplace when I announced to them that I was heading alone to the Middle East, specifically to visit the Biblical city of Jerusalem. Indeed, after arriving at Ben Gurion Airport, I took a taxi to Jerusalem, and I was left to book a room at a hotel. After settling in, from outside came a loud sound of gunfire. Thus, I have arrived, not at a popular holiday resort but at a warzone, thus exacerbating my sense of travel adventure. Especially when finding out that the very hotel I spent the night at was also used by the Israel Government to hold a conference there, 18 years later in 1994, to decide if East Jerusalem should be handed to Palestinian control under the gesture of Israel's worst enemy, then PLO leader Yasser Arafat.

It was no surprise that the Jews were furious, and they held a massive demonstration at Ben Yehuda Street fronting the hotel. With TV cameras placed here and there, along with the setting fire to Palestinian flags and Arafat banners, the size of the crowd made me feel somewhat claustrophobic, and I had to carefully wend my way through the mass of mostly male crowd until, at Jaffa Gate onwards, I was able to amble through the dark medieval street of the Old City back to the Arab-owned backpacker's hostel and the safety of my bed.

All that, along with watching a sheep skinned alive at a family wedding reception, learning how to say No to pushy Arabs offering "tours" for a fee and risking making enemies in a land I knew little of, yet such experiences had opened my eyes on life in the Middle East and its strong religious affiliation. Also to add that in 1976, I went down with a fever for three days, and how I was nursed back to health by an Arab family, whose house was built on Mount Moriah, the site of the City of David just south of Jerusalem. It's the sort of experience hardly known by those visiting with a Christian tour group, which seems to be the norm for westernised churchgoers.

Travelling on my own always carried an element of risk. At least that is what other people thought. Such as my work colleagues who were impressed with my trip to Israel in 1976, and I became the talk of the town. Or how I was called "brave" by two work colleagues who saw me stroll through the streets of New Orleans French Quarter in 1978, and again, 17 years later, by the air stewardess on the 1995 United Airlines flight from London to New York. Or the time I found myself walking alone between Sea World and Downtown San Diego late in the evening, after dark, again in 1995. This was due to missing the last bus back to the city where my hostel bed was. Fortunately, I stopped a passing cyclist and asked for directions. Just as well, as I was heading the wrong way, to begin with.

Or the walk from Downtown Los Angeles to the Greyhound Bus Terminal east of the city to prepare for the journey to San Francisco. I passed some iffy characters lounging around as I walked along East 7th Street, but nothing of significance happened. But it was still risky, yet the memory of this I treasure for life.

The taking of risks for a rich reward. And there is one chap at our church whose trip to the States included a hike with his two daughters up Angel Landing, a mountain at Zion National Park in Utah. The hike is described as dangerous, as it involves holding on to a safety chain while navigating a trail on a narrow precipice over a sheer drop into the valley below. As I studied the stock photo, I gasped and asked myself if I would be willing to navigate such a daring stretch of the trail. With ideal weather, my answer to that is a yes, as long as my camera is fully functional and ready. The reward for such a hike is an album of spectacular photos, especially of the valley below with mountains on the other side, thus forming a canyon in between.

I checked its accessibility on the internet. Little wonder that during my visits to that part of the world, I knew nothing about Zion National Park, although I might have been aware of its existence. Apparently, there is no public transport to it, unlike that of the Grand Canyon NP where transport is arranged at Flagstaff Bus Station.

Angel Landing Trail, Zion NP. Stock photo.

Sometimes I wonder what is riskier, using public transport or driving your own car? Especially in the States. No doubt, with a car, the whole of the USA is accessible. Not only the Grand Canyon but Zion NP, Canyonlands in Utah, Yellowstone Park, Yosemite in California, and others. These are places not reached by the Greyhound Bus, according to my experience. But at least bus travel is more comfortable and risk-free. But with hiring a car, on top of the rental fee, the hirer has to pay Collision-Waver Insurance, fuel and oil, and perhaps a fee to keep the tyres inflated. And with the risk of collisions and possible hospitalisation, nevertheless, the rewards for self-drive must be far richer when considering visiting these parks armed with a camera.

1995 is typical. From New York, my journey on the Greyhound Bus was "fast" - that is, I didn't alight except at service stops until I crossed the Mississippi River to alight at St Louis, Missouri, the home of the 630-foot high Gateway Arch. All the other cities - Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Colombus, and Cincinnati as examples, looked very much the same, a smaller version of Manhattan with its rows of cuboid tower blocks rising from the otherwise flat countryside. After a journey which was about the same distance covered as that of London to Rome, St Louise was worth spending a few days for its history. However, far more interesting for me is the mountainous country west of the Mississippi.

Finally, how far would I push my luck on a dangerous hike? Well, definitely not on the Mt Huashan Trail in China! That's the pic under the opening paragraph of this blog. It looks very rickety, doesn't it? Yet its purpose is not originally for leisure hiking but to provide access to a monastery. But at present, daring leisure hikers now use it! No, no matter how far I might push myself into the realm of high risk, this one is a definite no-no!

One of the Main Causes of Illnesses.

The mail drops through your letterbox. Whether it's the slot through your front door here in the UK or the mailbox standing outside the front yard of your property over in the States, the principle is the same. You feel your emotions rise as you slit the envelope open. Your heart begins to beat faster, you feel a shiver pass down your spine as you examine the enclosed energy bill.

Your instincts were right. How could your creditors bill you for such a high energy use? Had your electric or gas meter gone haywire? Or is this yet another proof of inflation, and you're beginning to believe that your well-earned income will struggle to meet the required payment?

Gas and electric meters at a typical UK home.

Here in the UK, when our three major public-owned utility companies such as gas, electric and water were sold off to privatisation under Margaret Thatcher's administration spanning the 1980s, the funding was no longer subsidised by the taxpayer who was keeping our household bills in moderation. Instead, shareholders wanted to make for themselves greater profits, and it was the consumers who ended up footing the bill. And one of the cuts made in serving the customer was to do away with the meter man, the chap who called every quarter to read your meter, record on the clipboard the current meter reading, and then pass the displayed figures on to the billing dept of the supplier. 

Not anymore.

Instead, the company now hire "experts" - whoever they may be - to work out an estimation without leaving the office, and that's what is printed on the bill. In most cases, the estimation is only slightly out of sync with the actual meter reading. But within the last month, the gas bill came through the door carrying a vast overestimation of more than £500. Immediately, I went to the outside closet to read the meter. According to the "expert", I had consumed 1,547 more units of gas than I actually did, hence the way-out-of-sync overestimation. I contacted them straight away to give the correct reading. Unfortunately, that was done via automation.

However, I received no reply until I made an extra effort, including a wait, to speak to an actual human being, who turned out to be a female with an Asian accent, asking for the latest reading, which I was able to give her.

Then, assuming the issue will be resolved sooner or later, I allowed it to pass. However, behind her stoicism, surely my beloved was anxious for our future. But we gave it no more thought and we got on with our lives.

Then one afternoon this week, Alex began to develop severe pain in her lower abdomen. Fortunately, the district nurse had to make a regular call, and seeing her agony, it was her, and not us, who made an emergency call for an ambulance. I groaned. I have seen it all before. But despite her dosage of painkillers, her pain continued as she was led in a wheelchair to the waiting vehicle outside. Even our neighbour shook his head. He too had seen it all before. And now, as I write, I'm alone in the house - again.

Another CTS or Computed Tomography Scan was made of her affected region, just like last time. And like before, there was absolutely nothing amiss with any of her organs. The only way to keep the pain under control is through painkillers. It was then I managed to chat with the consultant over the phone. I asked him whether the pain is a message to the brain, informing it that there's something amiss. His reply was that this was not a necessity. Rather, she's suffering from chronic pain. It's the kind of natural discomfort that can't be treated by surgery.

Since she was taken in, I kept on praying, crying to God for mercy on both of us. Over the years, I have become sceptical over "the healing ministry" conducted by some charismatic churches. In truth, I had never witnessed supernatural healing, despite being a Christian believer for half a century! Indeed, I have heard tales of such incidents, plenty of them, but I have yet to see a miracle for myself. Therefore, it came as no real surprise that I felt discouraged during a Zoom prayer meeting - and said so.

The host, who was also one of our elders, reminded me of King David's agony, expressed in Psalm 13. His prayers also seemed wasted, unanswered, as if there was a barrier of solid brass between heaven and earth. Yet, he concluded that his trust and dependence on God's goodness will always stand firm. Well, if David can do it, so can I. Not to forget Job, too. He had lost nearly everything and his lack of health brought him to death's door, but still insisted on God's goodness. And should the reader confine these incidences to the Old Testament, then consider the Apostle Paul, one of the main New Testament writers. Throughout his ministry, his "thorn in the flesh" was most likely conjunctivitis, a delibating eye infection. Even his plea with God to have the "thorn" removed remained unanswered.

Atheists love to scoff at our faith, demonstrating that unanswered prayer is proof of the non-existence of God and that we as Christians hold to the belief that the earth is only a few thousand years old, and then present their convincing evidence of Darwinian evolution going back by billions of years, thus denying the reality of the Gospel.

However, I digress. The truth is, my faith is backed by science and not refuted. And thus, after prayer and a series of circumstantial evidence, Alex's pain, including the aches she suffers from her neurological ailments, can be blamed on two organs, each one sitting on each of her kidneys - the adrenal glands.

The Adrenal Glands each rests on a kidney.

The adrenal glands are essential for self-preservation. For example, if threatened by a gang in a narrow alley, you will either fight or flee. More likely the latter. When confronted with such danger, the brain sends a message to the two glands via the nerves to produce the hormone adrenaline. Its presence in the bloodstream causes the lungs to breathe heavier for greater oxygenation, the heart to beat faster to supply extra oxygenated blood, and the widening of the arteries to provide a greater blood flow to the muscles, allowing the victim to run faster and for a longer distance to safety. At any bleeding wound, with adrenaline, the blood will also congeal more quickly, saving on excess blood loss.

Fright can take many forms, such as being chased by a large barking dog, such as an Alsation or German Shepherd. Or waking up in the middle of the night to see a silhouette of a man gazing at you from the window beyond the foot of the bed. Or in the case of my younger brother many years ago. As an arachnophobic, he picked up a cup at random from the kitchen shelf to make coffee. He peered into the cup to see a huge house spider nestling at the bottom. His adrenal glands responded to the sudden fright by throwing the cup violently, smashing it to pieces on the hard thermoplastic-tiled floor. The spider was then nowhere to be seen.

Or the case when I was a pool lifeguard back in 1973. My attention was drawn by a group of school children near a corner of the pool, all taking fright of a huge cockroach floating on the water. Fortunately, I didn't have to get into the pool, as I was able to kneel down at the edge and reach for the insect and dispose of it. Nothing heroic, it was part of my job. Had I been afraid, then I wouldn't have qualified for that particular vocation.

But should I give an exaggerated expression of myself, I have fears of two specific situations. One is walking or cycling through a flock of geese, especially when rearing their young. This was after reading in a newspaper about a man who was attacked by an angry swan and had one of his arm bones broken. I have known to divert onto a different trail if I see a flock of geese ahead. 

The other fear I have is of lifts or elevators. In Singapore, the lift to my hostel dormitory stopped between floors and I fell into a near-panic as a punched the alarm, which got the lift moving. And again more recently, with Alex in her wheelchair at Waterloo Station. The lift jammed between floors and by punching the alarm, the lift dropped to the bottom of the shaft with a sharp jolt and the doors opened. We couldn't get out quick enough! Thus, in all cases, my adrenal glands were called into action when faced with potential danger. Whenever possible, I use the stairs instead.

Thus the purpose of these two glands, created to respond to dangerous situations in lifesaving fright. During such situations, the glands produce enough adrenaline to deal with the problem. Afterwards, the body has a way of flushing the hormone from the bloodstream, mainly through urination.

However, excess stress can prompt the glands to keep on producing adrenaline on a steady basis. Stressors can come in all forms. For example, the inner stress brought about by the overestimation of the gas bill by over £500 could have led to my wife's severe abdominal pain which had put her in hospital. Added to her stress is her constant fear of me having a sudden heart attack. This form of stress developed in her after I had an aorta valve replacement in 2015, and relying on medication ever since.

Thus it can be concluded:-

Stressor >> Emotional turmoil >> Adrenal glands reacting >> Illness.

Thus, taking two living examples:-

Husband's heart failure >> Emotional turmoil >> Adrenal glands reacting >> Pain.

Low self-esteem >> Emotional turmoil >> Adrenal glands reacting >> Heart failure.

Those wonderful glands, specifically designed as a lifesaver, can be activated by prolonged stress and unlike with the fright situation, adrenaline remains in the bloodstream throughout its steady production and flow. It's this constant presence of the excess hormone that causes a variety of illnesses - fatigue, irritability, constipation, bloating, diarrhoea, high blood pressure, weight gain, erectile dysfunction, irregular menstruation periods, along with more serious ailments including a lower immune system, a greater target for infections, diabetes, arthritis, ulcerative colitis, cancer and heart failure. And there are many more.*

A lateral flow test device.

Hence, the importance of the Gospel. It not only leads to salvation, but its application can also help the believer cope with stress. I have found that prayer - the heartfelt calling to God for help - is psychologically beneficial. Coupled with this is the warm support from other church members, especially when it comes to solving various problems. Thus building friendships within the church environment makes a big difference in handling stressful situations when each has a common denominator, a God who loves us enough to save us through faith in his Son, Jesus Christ.

Right now, unless my result is negative on the Covid lateral flow test, I won't be able to visit my beloved at her ward. This has the potential to increase her stress levels, prolong her pain and delay any recovery. I hope I can be tested easily and pass, allowing me to visit her. After all, it's the state of my own health which had contributed to her ailments.

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*Dr S.I. McMillen M.D. - None Of These Diseases, 1966, 1980. Lakeland Publishers.

London Museum of Natural History, Gallery of Human Biology, 1982.

The Need for Recognition.

Earlier in the week, I took a train to Oxford. Two trains, actually, with the need to change trains at Reading. This was one of those mid-week trips I often take, "to have lunch", as from time to time I go either to Reading or even to London to mull over my thoughts in a cafe, usually, the one inbuilt on the upper floor of a Marks & Spencer department store. Such is the life of one retired from paid work.

A life to be envied or pitied? That's a matter of each individual's opinion. But after a sumptuous meal, I wandered to a nearby shopping mall boasting a rooftop terrace. Among the city's soaring spires, I saw a phenomenon which, for a moment fooled me, until I looked at it more thoroughly.

It was a cloud formation just over the horizon. But the grey hue over a light background gave an impression of a distant estuary with a coastline backed by hilly terrain. It was so realistic, that indeed, for a moment, I was fooled into believing that the city of Oxford looked over a distant river estuary. 

The ghost estuary behind Oxford.

But by checking any map of the UK, it's obvious that the city is totally landlocked and located just south of the Midlands, although the River Thames does pass through it, making that stretch of the river popular with local canoeists and punters.

Afterwards, I found myself strolling along Broad Street along the south face of Balliol College, one of many institutions making up the University of Oxford. Just opposite its entrance, a shallow pothole in the road marks the exact site of the 1555 martyrdom of Anglican bishops Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer. For me personally, this was the most outstanding event in Church history, followed in 1556 by the death of Anglican archbishop Thomas Cranmer who was also the author of the Book of Common Prayer, read in English churches for centuries afterwards. All three were burned alive on the same site for testifying the truthfulness of the Bible.

Although I have always admired such believers who prefer to give their lives to the fire rather than renounce the Bible or deny its truthfulness and historicity, there are times I can feel overwhelmed. From the site of the pothole, I look directly up to the hazy-blue sky and called out to God, feeling somewhat ashamed of my own worries and daily problems that seem paltry by comparison, and I ask for the same level of courage should I ever have to face martyrdom.

As I walk along the historic streets of the city, I watch those passing by predominantly young men and assume that one day they will boast of their alumni at Oxford University. Even our present Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, was once a student at Balliol College, as BBC foreign correspondent Mark Lowen, broadcasters Peter Snow and his son, Dan Snow, fellow broadcaster Robert Peston, Professor Richard Dawkins, and many others whose alumni served as the stepping stone to greatness.

I pause, look around and let out a sigh. Oh, how I wish that I succeded academically as these men did. How, from boyhood, have I longed to have made my late parents proud of me! Instead, what they did was to compare me with their neighbour's two sons who were both a little older and considerably brighter, and then to refer to me as an idiot, dim, and worst of all, those dreadful Italian words were directed at me by Mum - maledetto di Dio - cursed of God and destined for Hell. When told this every time I did or said something amiss or without proper forethought, sooner or later, I grew up to believe it to be all true. My sense of self-worth and self-esteem was rock bottom and I accepted all this as an indisputable fact, confirmed by my schoolmates, even our school teachers - to whom I was classed as below average - and later, by my work colleagues. Thus, it must be all true!

I wonder how many men think of themselves the same way I thought about myself? As author and BBC presenter, Simon Reeve wrote in his autobiography that the biggest killer in the UK amongst men is suicide. And he has the right to know. He wrote that as a late teenager, he stood on a footbridge spanning a busy motorway in West London, ready to jump. Just then, a passing truck honked a long blast - a sound that brought him to his senses as he pulled himself away from the edge. Reeve is one of a very rare species who eventually made his way to greatness without attending a Public School or University.

Have you ever had to stand in one long line, side by side, at the school football pitch at the start of the games session? Then the master picked out two team captains, and then it was left for the two boys to select their team players. I was always the last one remaining, and I had to join the team whose captain was unfortunate enough to watch me amber along to his side, whereafter I was invisible, totally ignored.

But sport as a whole I had never disliked. It's so fortunate that such activity covers a very wide range of disciplines, including contests against the clock. And in the early eighties, I put my version of a sport to practical use.

Exact spot of the martyrs' execution, Oxford.

Back in 1982, a friend invited me to a hospital radio studio, a small room tucked under the maternity ward building of Heatherwood Hospital in Ascot, the town renowned for its royal racecourse. Hospital radio is a very British institution, normally run by the League of Friends, a charity that gives moral support to in-patients, especially those who are long-stays. Actually, it wasn't a radio in the proper sense, but a cable connection to each of the detachable cell phone-like devices set beside each bed. With each of these, the patient listens to the radio via their earphones.

I became a member of the Friday crew, at first, too many of us to fit into such a small room. Each one of us had just 35 minutes to sit at the console, nicknamed Alice - and he was free to air his voice into the microphone, to be heard by every patient across the whole hospital who had tuned in. Thus, the studio became a cauldron of heated egos, each one of us vying for recognition, a prelude to fame, as a radio presenter, usually mislabeled as disc jockeys, or simply jocks for short.

It was known that hospital radio was a pathway for presenting on national radio, whether it's the BBC or commercial radio. We had one chap who was so vaingloriously ambitious and wanted to broadcast on the BBC, that he made his own cassette recording of his presentation, and submitted it to both the BBC and commercial radio stations. However, he was rejected by all of them and he left our crew without ever returning. 

All this was in the days of the vinyl, long before CDs came into fashion, let alone the computer or the Internet. On one side of the console, there were two manual turntables. While the record on one of them was playing, the other one was cued, ready for the music to begin at the right moment. On one side of the room was the record library. a large cabinet of shelves holding hundreds of albums and singles. Thus, each turntable was twin-speed, 33 RPM for the albums and 45 RPM for the singles (I thought I give this info for the benefit of those born after the year 1995.)

Thus, a common mistake was forgetting to adjust the speed of the turntable after the music had begun. There were times when, even unaware of the presenter's attention, either a single churned out its tune too slowly or an album was whizzing its contents too quickly. Thus the term Roger the Bodger was coined by me, after the Beano comic character and became something of a laughable joke.

The record library gave a good insight into human psychology, even if unwittingly. The largest number of albums taking up the shelves were of solo male singers, such as Adam Faith, Cliff Richard, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Rolf Harris, Val Doonican, Gene Pitney - to name a few. Fewer in numbers were male group vocals, such as Beatles, Rolling Stones, Tremeloes, Small Faces, Beach Boys, etc. Female vocals both solo and groups, were considerably fewer, along with the classical albums. All this is a good indication that the need for recognition is found more strongly among males.   

As this strong desire for recognition, especially among males, was reflected by the size of the record stack, so in the studio, the sense of competition was felt, with one teenage presenter, whose mother was a nurse at the hospital, preceded the rest of us. Thus, he referred to himself as the senior jockey, despite his young age. It was due to him that I unintentionally took on the role of detective, after watching him steal singles from the library after reports of records going missing throughout the preceding months.

Eventually, after my initial friend who invited me in the first place left the crew due to his job schedule, I was assigned the team leader by the charity chairman. I narrowed the number of presenters to just three, to cover the full three hours from 7.00-10.00 pm. That is a full hour at the microphone for each of us.

However, the charity eventually ran short of funding. Therefore, by collecting sponsors from both my window cleaning customers and from church friends, I ran the Bracknell Half Marathon to contribute towards rebalancing the charity's funds. Since several attempts had to be made, I ran the race three times, one event a year, to contribute to the restoration of the fund. I also ran a stall at a local fete to raise further funds to put the studio and the charity back on track.

Eventually, in 1985, I left Radio Heatherwood, with myself assigning the keys as team leader to my successor, a friend from church who had joined our crew and was trained up mainly by the two of us. Leaving him to take the reins, I moved on to join Thames Valley Triathletes, based in Reading, as a follow-up from the half marathons I completed.

At Radio Heatherwood studio, taken 1985.

My tale as a triathlete is another story, to which space won't allow me to detail here. Suffice to say, I enjoyed competing in the combined Swim-Cycle-Run events held across the country. Some of these events required an overnight stay at a hotel or even a backpacker's hostel. But not only had I found these events a challenge to my physical side but also to both mental and emotional integrity.

But our greatest achievement was accomplished by bringing the Triathlon into Bracknell, placing our hometown on the world triathlon map. Details on how that was accomplished have already been written in one of my older blogs, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Thanks, Ascot Baptist. A direct link is given below.

If you see how my blog layout had evolved between 2011 and the present, that's another reason not to feel worthless. Perseverance is what I love doing - which is writing - will lead to such improvements.

Finally, doing everything for the glory of God is the underlying secret behind all issues concerning self-esteem. 

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*To extract the blog from the archives, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Click here