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31 May 2013

Crohn's Disease - the living hell that nearly killed me

By DAISY BECKMAN

Me with my baby brother Buddy
(Donna Gee's granddaughter)
The last nine months have been living hell for me. My Crohn’s has been horrific and I’ve been in and out of hospital many times.
It all started when I went to Manchester Children’s Hospital and I was on 32 tablets a day and was rattling with drugs. I was doubled over in agony most of the time and was in desperate need of an operation to remove my extremely inflamed bowel. They did many scans and tests and found nothing. I had a nasal gastric tube placed which I hated and was fed through that and was not allowed to eat because I was vomiting when I did.
My consultant did not think I required an operation and suggested most of my pain was psychological. This made me mad and upset me more than ever to think me being in pain most if not all of the time was being completely ignored.
I went to Alder Hey children’s hospital which was very on the ball and my new consultant Dr Auth was fantastic and got all my MRI scans, bariums and scopes done straight away . When I woke up from an anaesthetic I was told I required an operation to remove some bowels and that it would be pretty straight forward. My operation was planned for two months time - not long after my 13th birthday.
I went to my outpatient’s appointment in a wheelchair as I was in that much pain and so weak that I could hardly walk. Dr Auth said I had to be admitted straight away so I went to ward E3 for the night. The next morning I was wheeled down to ultrasound and they found the unexpected. I had no clue what was going on but my surgeon was called to ultrasound and was very concerned. Then I was told in two hours time I would be operated on.
I was panicking like mad so my nurse gave me some premed before theatre to calm me down and I was all drugged up and completely out of it . I don’t remember anything after that .
I had had the biggest operation of my life lasting seven hours. I had an abscess stuck near my kidney which nearly killed me and a stricture. I had lost loads of blood during the operation and needed a blood transfusion.
I have had such a traumatic time and I just wanted to thank you all so much for doing this Walk for me it really does mean a lot. I wish I could be there to thank you all personally but I am so far behind with my studies that I really have no time for anything but schoolwork at present.
 You are all wonderful for supporting research which will hopefully make the sort of pain I have suffered a thing of the past. Your donations really do make a difference.To end I want to say a huge thank you to my grandma Donna for doing a sponsored slim to help CICRA and for making people more aware of the pain and suffering of children with Crohn’s through her column in The Courier newspaper in Spain.

My fundraising angels are the Crohn jewels of charity

Ready to walk the Walk...my friends raised £1,200 plus
I’VE never been any good at expressing myself through a microphone ­-- so forgive me for reserving part of this week’s column as a grotto of gratitude.
For the past four months I have been trying to raise funds for a charity close to my heart…a cause dedicated to ending the suffering of youngsters like my granddaughter Daisy, who almost lot her life to Crohn’s Disease.
My cunning plan was to try to lose two and a half stone through a sponsored diet. It was hardly a Mission Impossible…indeed it was Mission Dare Not Fail, because I could hardly let Daisy down by continuing to resemble the Princess of Whales.
In the 16 weeks I’ve been fighting the flab, I’ve lost all but half a stone of that 35lbs target, but it’s been tough going, believe me. I also made a mess of the sponsorship side because of my inexplicable embarrassment  when it comes to asking people for money. And because I was so naïve that I didn’t realise I should have recruited sponsors to back me BEFORE I started losing weight.
The end result is that although my online fundraising  stood at the start of this week at 25 per cent more than my original £500 target, I probably missed out on double that amount through my lack of fundraising skills.
But CICRA, the Crohn’s in Children Research Association, are about to get a big surprise, thanks to my amazing friends Dee Williams and Susan Reader and the unbelievable support of an expat community whose generosity knows no bounds.
Susan, one of the Costa’s most prolific voluntary fundraisers, and Dee – who runs Bar Sofia in El Raso,- decided to give a boost to my uninspiring efforts to fill CICRA’s coffers. I didn’t ask them to help…they formed their own Daisy chain and plated it with gold in the form of a Charity Walk and Fun Day
I had expected perhaps half a dozen sad souls to take part in the short 2.5km walk and perhaps a dozen to come along to the subsequent activities at Sofia’s.
There were five times that number, with dozens more thronging Sofia’s for the fashion show and commercial mini market that followed. The Walk and Fun Day, plus raffle and other ‘extras’, have already generated a staggering €1,200 plus…and the money is still coming in.
The bottom line is that the £759.93 I have raised for CICRA in sponsorship and gift aid is about to rocket to more than £2,000 even if nothing more comes in before I complete my diet on June 30.
Some €500 of this latest cash injection came from two sources….€200 from the now defunct El Raso Neighbourhood Watch, for which I thank Barbara Roebuck and Tony Bowhey in particular, and an unbelievable €300 collected personally by my neighbours Marie and Colin Whitfield. Ever-helpful and ever-willing, the golden hearted couple’s wad of sponsorship forms included the name of just about every soul on the urbanisation.
As I write, my Just Giving charity page shows only the £759.93 contributed to CICRA by sponsors of my diet. Sunday’s  jackpot will be added in the next few days but I doubt that will be the end of it… because the philanthropy of the expat community seems to know no bounds.
Just keep checking www.justgiving.com/donna-gee and you’ll see what I mean…
 

26 May 2013

The night David Beckham drove me into a car park in the dark...

David Beckham’s football career might have ended 15 years ago had I not pointed him in the right direction.
He’d probably still be looking for the car park at Manchester’s city-centre Ramada Hotel (now the Renaissance).
It was a night I’ll never forget...a charity spectacular for sick and terminally ill children involving 30 of the biggest names in North-west sport.
The then unknighted  Alex Ferguson was there, along with Manchester United stars Paul Scholes and Nicky Butt and a host of other A-list stars including future England cricket captain Andrew Flintoff.
The celebs mingled with 300 paying guests at a  fundraising evening-dress event based on BBC TV’s A Question of Sport. And as a committee member, I was assigned to the welcoming desk in the hotel reception area.
UNITED FOR CHARITY: Beckham, Ferguson, Scholes and Butt
All but one of the celebrities had been escorted up to the banqueting suite and Beckham was the only name not crossed off my list.
I looked at my watch and decided to give him a tiny bit longer. I mean, I wanted to see Posh Spice's fella close up.
I stood there alone, people-watching—and wondering what I would say if Becks actually showed up.
Then it happened. There was no dramatic entrance. In fact, it was an extremely hesitant Beckham who emerged from the swing doors, looking shy and confused.
I made a beeline for the Old Trafford glamour boy. ‘‘Hi David,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m…’’
.‘‘How do I get to the hotel car park?’’ he interjected edgily.‘‘Where’s your car?’’ I said.
“Out there.’’
He pointed vaguely in the direction of Blackfriars Street.
I hardly expected it to be in Birmingham but I resisted the temptation to joke with the clearly agitated youngster.
“Turn left at the traffic lights,’’ I said. “The entrance is 100 yards down on the left. You can’t miss it.’’
Beckham clearly found bending a ball into a net from 35 yards a much simpler challenge than bending his BMW sports car 200 metres around a corner.
But his confusion didn’t surprise me. These were the days when "y’know" constituted roughly 80 percent of the entire Beckham vocabulary.
‘‘No problem, I’ll come with you,’’ I said, heading for the swing doors. England’s most fanciable footballer followed me out, relieved that he didn’t have to go it alone.
Gleaming at us from across the road was that luxurious blue Beckham BMW.  I tried to start a conversation as we waited for the traffic lights to change, hoping he might just leak an exclusive story. But the Beckham of the late ‘90s seemed incapable of stringing a full sentence together
Either that or he was petrified of Fergie’s hair-dryer burning his golden locks if he said anything out of place..
For the rest of the two minute journey I clung to Beckham’s every word. Both of them.
And before you could say "you know," we were  facing a key-card protected barrier at the car-park entrance. “I’ll get someone to let you in,’’ I said, leaping out.
Somewhere in the gloom, a white apron and chef’s hat ghosted out of a door, with a camp cook inside them.
“Can I help?’’ asked the food fairy, lighting a cigarette and trumping Beckham’s array of continuous words in a single spurt.
“How do we get the barrier raised?’’ I asked, indicating the BMW at the barrier.:  “I’ve got David Beckham over there trying to get in.’’
“David Beckham? WHERE?!!!!!’’
Suddenly there were people in white aprons everywhere.
The barrier lifted as if by magic, Beckham and BMW eased into an empty parking space to a round of applause from the gathered cuisinery, and I reflected on the fortune Beckham's Car Park Chronicles could have earned me had I managed to get his lips moving.
But the only story I got was this one.

11 May 2013

Bigger than Manchester United: Two-faced Ferguson's ego trip


I’ve met Sir Alex Ferguson on a couple of occasions (well, been in his company ) and I have to say it was a pleasant experience. Even if the Manchester United boss’s red-nosed jollity had been inspired by a glass or six of vintage vino.
So why do I find it so pleasant to see his 27-year reign at Old Trafford finally come to an end?
It’s not that I’m anti United — how can I be when half my family are dyed-in-the-wool Reds? It’s just that I have no time for two-faced people. And I’m afraid Fergie is a classic example of a split personality .
You can’t argue with the Scottish super-boss’s record as a football club manager. He has no peers in terms of success over more than two decades. What I find disgusting is that Mr McMighty has become bigger than Manchester United—and that his employers  allowed him to do so.
Fergie’s press conference bans on newspapermen who dare to criticise  him or his team  have become folklore in Fleet Street. One agency reporter felt the full weight of Fergie’s wrath  a while back just for asking a question about Ryan Giggs. But it was nothing new. Over the years, Fergie has slapped ridiculous sanctions dozens of journalists who dared to write or say something he didn’t like.
Sir Alex is vindictive with it, too. Not for him the "let bygones be bygones" approach. His ludicrous vendetta against the BBC went on for almost a decade—fuelled by a Panorama programme which investigated the business activities of his son Jason, who was then a football agent.
Another example of his petulance was the recall of two players on loan from United immediately after Preston North End sacked another of his sons, Darren.
The fact is that Sir Alex became the victim of his own success. He seems convinced that he is even closer to the Almighty than Jose Mourinho and the late Brian Clough. 
And the United board are entirely to blame for the situation. Quite simply , they lacked the bottle to tell Ferguson ‘‘Either talk to the BBC along with the other broadcasting companies, or find yourself a new job.’’
OK, we all know what would have happened. United would have been looking for a new boss many years ago. That has been the problem at Old Trafford for a long time. Quite simply , the board were just as scared of Fergie as the frightened media rabbits who bowed and scraped to his every whim. 
They humbled themselves in the eyes of the Mighty Dictator,  which makes me suspect that few of those who cover United matches on a regular basis always write exactly what they think.
And I find that very discomforting.

4 May 2013

Ryanair keep kicking me in the ribs, Mr O'Leary


I SUPPOSE it was fated to happen after all the bashings I’ve given to the airline the world hates to love.
Not satisfied with fleecing me of 50 euros on the outward trip, Ryanair kicked me in the ribs on my return flight to Alicante from Manchester.
Well, I’ve got to blame someone - and they’re used to it!
I’ve been doubled up in pain for the last 10 days, with the prospect of  two more weeks explaining why I’m crawling about like a 90-year-old crab.
After my heinous crime on the flight to the UK (and the €50 fine levied by a human Rottweiler at the boarding desk who would have preferred the death sentence), I arrived at the departure gate in Manchester prepared for a handbag war.
I’d replaced the criminally large one I took to England with a mini-handbag which fitted easily into my hand luggage and took my place in the Ryanair ‘Priority’ queue ready for the flak to fly as it had at Alicante.
No such luck - Jonny Rottweiler and the Air Pirates were nowhere in sight,  just a couple of polite lady pussy cats.
Here was the reality of ageism. The young Spanish jobsworths at Alicante had both been in their twenties. The British-Asian women who checked me through the boarding gate at Manchester were double their age – and consequently graduates in tact and diplomacy.
Before joining the queue, I had plonked my 10 kilos of  cabin luggage into the Ryanair size rack and, surprise surprise, it just about fitted. But then, of course I couldn’t get it out. I pulled and pulled and eventually a  male passenger did the job for me.
I half expected Rott-man to appear with a set of scales and weigh my bag in at 10.1 kilos. Which I presume would also incur a €50 fine.
Come to think of it, why do Ryanair not check the weight of hand luggage carried  by passengers  with online boarding cards? (I shouldn’t have mentioned that. They might get ideas).
Anyway, on to the meat of this article - how Ryanair condemned me to suffer.
Despite the relaxed atmosphere at Manchester airport, I was happy enough to get past the boarding gate. A particularly helpful gentleman (yes, they do still exist) helped me get my 10 kilos’ worth aboard  and I settled into my reserved front-row window seat (at €10 extra, a snip for creaking oldies).
OK Mr O'Leary, you win. Please put us down
Two  po-faced women were already  filling the two adjacent seats. I smiled at the fatty wedged next to me and made a light-hearted comment designed to break the ice. She froze me out with one cold look. No problem, I thought,  she’s probably foreign and didn’t understand me.
She turned to her pal and spouted something in fluent Jamie Carragher. There we are, I knew she was foreign.
As passengers without reserved seats (which was virtually everyone) funnelled through the plane, the male steward asked the Liverpool lasses if they had reserved the seats they were in.
‘’No’’ .
‘’You can’t sit here then,’’ he told them, to my intense pleasure. “Anywhere after Row 6, please.’’
Reluctantly, the Liver Birds  headed for the rear of the plane, to be replaced by two suited young Spaniards who DID have reservations. Great, I thought – convinced I’d get in a bit of  Spanish practice during the ensuing  two and a bit hours.
No chance. Los chicos babbled away so rapido that I barely understood a palabra – and I quickly realised they had nothing in common with a grumpy old geriatric.
Because of back problems, I have difficulty bending down. So when, soon after take-off, I dropped the Ryanair flight magazine, the sensible thing would have been to ask one of the Spanish guys if he could help.
But this was ‘Grabber Granny’ hour, so down I stretched to rescue the fallen literary classic.
After two or three failed attempts, I sat up again and thought ‘I’m making a fool of myself. I’ve got to get it next time.’
I lurched forward and felt a big crack in my lower ribs, accompanied by a fierce pulled-muscle type pain.
Since then, I have thought of little but Ryanair. When I’m not yelling for relief, that is.
I think of them when I wake up in the morning, when I sit down or stand up,  when I get in and out of my car, in fact I never stop thinking about the floor of that plane.’ They had no right to put it there.
I’m in pain just about every second of the day. And I’m told the only cure for  rib damage is rest and patience.
Michael O’Leary, you’re a cruel man.I have only word to say to you and your airline.
OUCH!