She also helped me fine-tune my diet. I didn’t want to go too far in the direction of eating food that’s supposed to be good for you, because my Celtic roots crave shepherd’s pie and Yorkshire pudding.
We talked about inflammation in the body. Dr. Hall explained that inflammation protects us. It helps our bodies get rid of foreign matter like bacteria and toxins, keeping them from spreading into other tissues and organs. Its protective responses—redness, heat, pain, and swelling—help the body get rid of foreign substances and prepare injured tissues for repair. Occasional inflammation is part of the normal healing process.
But like just about everything, inflammation has its downside. When it’s chronic, it becomes destructive. Repeatedly inflamed tissues become damaged and break down, creating diseases.
To reduce inflammation, I had to replace refined sugars with whole grains and fruit, watch the balance of fats in my diet, and cut back on organ-damaging alcohol.
I pledged in my diary the following: I definitely know I must renounce sugar out of my life. Conclusion: renounce sugar, and believe in the power of doing so, because I want to be healthy, physically and mentally, and I want to see my grandchildren grow up. I’ve got to get the junk out of my system. It causes inflammation and my body to hurt.
I was also prescribed vitamin supplements such as a multiple vitamin–mineral pill, iron, vitamin D, and a formulation designed to boost my adrenal glands. The adrenal glands play a part in regulating mood and energy and helping us deal with stress.
These grape-size glands manufacture and secrete potent hormones that are essential to your health and vitality and have profound consequences for the way you think and feel. Without the adrenals’ hormones, you would die—which further explains all the weird symptoms I had been experiencing.
I have always believed in nutritional supplements and holistic remedies. My grandmother was a homeopathic doctor, in fact. When I was eighteen years old, she healed me of glandular fever using homeopathic medicines.
Homeopathy is a natural pharmaceutical science based on the premise that “likes are cured by likes,” also called the Law of Similars. In other words, homeopathic therapy uses a medicinal substance with a “symptom picture” that is most similar to the symptoms of the person who is sick. For example, sleeping difficulties caused by drinking too much coffee could be treated by taking small amounts of the homeopathic remedy Coffea. Thus, homeopathy works with the body’s inherent recovery process.
I have long used homeopathic remedies prescribed by Dr. Peter Procuik, a man so gifted in his field. One of the remedies I tried (reluctantly at first) was Lachesis, made from the venom of the bushmaster snake, which lives in the jungles of Central and South America. This remedy is given for headaches, palpitations, appendicitis, sore throats, and menstrual pains. And it is very effective—at least it was for me. So I believe in homeopathy. When I take homeopathic drops and pills, I feel much calmer and more secure, and I definitely have more clarity.
And now, with Prudence’s help, too, I headed off with a shopping bag of creams, potions, and pills—and a feeling of hope.
I get up in the morning, take my thyroid medicine, and spread creams in places I don’t think we need to discuss. As one of my daughters says, “Let’s not go there.” I finish by taking the rest of my supplements.
The regimen has made a huge difference. I feel like a new woman. The huge blanket of fatigue and negativity has been lifted. I feel like I am walking on air and I have not looked back. Sleep comes easily now, and I find that I’m calmer and able to tolerate everyday stresses better than before. Moreover, I’ve been able to avoid the hot flashes and other uncomfortable symptoms associated with menopause. My energy is back, and my skin glows again.
I’m so pleased with the results that I’ve encouraged my friends who are in their forties and fifties to get their hormone levels tested. I want every woman in the world to know that they don’t have to feel so awful. Just because you’re in your fifties doesn’t mean you have to turn into an old lady.
Before I left Prudence Hall’s tender care, she handed me a little card. Written on it were these words:
The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart.—Rumi
NUGGETS:
• Make sure you have your hormones well balanced. When our bodies start losing that juice, we can begin to wither and dry up.
• Talk to your doctor, and consider bioidentical hormones and thyroid help.
• More exercise means less aging—so get active with something you enjoy.
• Don’t go overboard with plastic surgery. If you’ve had too much lifting and tightening, you can start to look as though you just came out of a wind tunnel.
• Healthy aging comes from adopting an attitude that is positive about life.
From: Martha Beck
To: Sarah
Relax. Breathe. Feel your heart’s desire for love and kindness, and let it be as it is. Offer it memories of love, the way you’d offer milk to a kitten. Gradually you’ll begin radiating acceptance to the whole world, and the whole world will accept you.
xoxo
Martha
24 Wedding Bells
The good times and the bad times have made me the woman I am today, and I have nothing to regret about that.
ON THE DAY that Prince William and Catherine Middleton became engaged—November 16, 2010—I felt like the air had been sucked out of me. I wanted to die, I really did. I crouched in a corner, terrified and alone.
Was I jealous? Was I remembering those glorious, heady days when the whole world was looking at the luckiest girl alive? Would I do the whole thing over again?
Yes, yes—and yes.
I knew in my heart that Kate was absolutely the luckiest girl in the world, as fairy tales go. She would marry her prince.
Like millions of other people, I got the news via a CNN update. Prince William had popped the question in Kenya some time ago, slipping a sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring onto Kate’s finger. In doing so, he linked her not just to the pomp and circumstance of royal history but to one figure in particular: his late mother. Diana was the ring’s previous keeper. After nine years of dating and will-they/won’t-they speculation, it was a headlong step into the glare of the spotlight.
The announcement coincided with a planned trip to India to attend the wedding of a friend. I was happy for the coincidence because I could shield myself from the endless stream of media reports.
But I could not stop thinking about the engagement. I spent my seven-hour flight to India remembering the last wedding held at Westminster Abbey—mine.
1986
Final preparations for the sovereign display began before dawn, as crack marksmen took up their positions on the rooftops and security men disguised themselves as bewigged footmen. By 10:00 AM the first of the 1,900 guests began taking their seats in the abbey. First Lady Nancy Reagan and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher were in attendance, along with Opposition Leaders Neil Kinnock, David Owen, and David Steel. So, too, were actor Michael Caine, TV host David Frost, and singer Elton John, sporting purple glasses and a ponytail.
Just ninety minutes before the ceremony, the Queen conferred the title Duke of York on Prince Andrew. By tradition, this title is reserved for the sovereign’s second son and had previously been held by King George VI.
Members of the Royal Family began taking their place next to the high altar: Prince Edward, acting as Andrew’s best man, the Queen Mother, Prince Philip, Princess Anne, Prince Charles, Princess Diana, and little Prince William. Next, the country’s first family took its place on the high altar, across from my mother, Susan, and my stepfather, Hector.
When Andrew and I were engaged, there were some inside the palace who did not want Hector to attend because he was Argentine, and our countries had fought bitterly over the Falkland Islands. I put my foot down hard at this, the first of many run-ins I would have with the powers behind the throne. My father walked me down the aisle at Westminster
Abbey, but in my mind Hector was just as much a part of my family.
A few minutes after eleven, the gates of Clarence House swung open to release a matched pair of bay horses and their special freight, the Glass Coach, so named for the large windows on either side. There were but two passengers: myself and my father, who looked dashing in his own father’s dark-green morning coat. The crowd outside loosed into a raucous version of “Here Comes the Bride.”
We made our ceremonious way along the Mall to Westminster Abbey. With nearly a million people lining the one-mile route, Dad looked desperately flustered. But I was just cruising. This was fun.
As trumpets sounded and thousands roared, my father and I stepped out of the coach. It isn’t so hard to enjoy mass adoration; the tricky part is understanding that it has nothing to do with you, and it rarely outlives an English summer. But on my wedding day all I knew or cared about was that Fergie was in glorious vogue. And as for Sarah, that ugly, valueless, unglamorous creature? No one had seen or heard from her for some time, which was just as I wanted it.
As we reached the Abbey’s West Door, adjustments were made to my dress, made from duchesse satin, the creamiest material in the world. Attached to the dress was a fifteen-foot train. We took our places, heard the first notes of the processional, and started down the aisle.
As I moved down that rich strip of carpet, my hair crowned in gardenias, I blocked out the guests in the Abbey and the half a billion people watching me on television.
I stayed calm right up to when the archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Robert Runcie, looked at me with his big eyes to lead me through my vows. In that moment the immensity of it all pierced my cloud of cool. Although I had drilled my lines, in particular Andrew’s middle names—Albert Christian Edward, which I remember as ACE—I stammered over Christian and repeated it twice.
Much was made of the fact that I opted for traditional marriage vows. Diana had taken the modern route, omitting the bride’s pledge of obedience, and people expected me to follow suit—I probably went the other way to be different. It was all a moot point with me; to obey him was merely to hear my own soul.
We plighted our troths and exchanged our rings, and the congregation burst into “God Save the Queen.” I had become Princess Andrew and the Duchess of York, as well as the Countess of Inverness and Baroness of Killyleagh, a place in Northern Ireland where I have ancestral links.
Prince William, age four at the time, probably doesn’t remember it, but he was a bit of a show stealer. During the forty-five-minute ceremony, the irrepressible prince played on the cord of his hat, wrapping the string around his nose and chewing it like a licorice stick. Undaunted by baleful stares from his mother and grandmother, the second-in-line to the throne pulled out his miniature ceremonial dagger and began poking holes in the dress of Diana’s niece Laura Fellowes, age six. Later, as we got into the Coach, the little prince ran toward the carriage, and the Queen hurried to retrieve him.
Back to the palace … up to the balcony for our public appearance. Tens of thousands shouted, “Give us a kiss!” Then, obligingly, we kissed.
I was so deeply attached, so profoundly in love. I didn’t realize that in getting my prince I would have to give up so much, not least the man himself.
The plane landed in Delhi, India, with a thump that wrested me from my nostalgic reverie. At the Delhi airport, I discovered that British Airways had forgotten to put my luggage on the plane. The kind person who met me insisted that it would come on the next flight. My next destination was Jodhpur, so I made my way to the Jet Airways check-in desk, just to confirm my ticket. Lucky I did, since traveling in India is much different than it used to be. At every turn, you must produce documentation of your travel schedule and proof that you even exist.
I nested in the airport lounge while awaiting my flight to Jodhpur. Several cups of tea later, I rang my friend Debbie, who would also be attending the wedding.
“What on earth are you doing going to Jodhpur?” she blurted. “We have all just arrived in Jaipur!”
I had to get to Jaipur, but the next flight was fifteen hours away. I hired a driver to take me there—a six-hour trip by car. He maneuvered his way skillfully through Delhi, not an easy task. The streets were teeming with people and animals: women in colorful saris and punjabis (two-piece outfits with a matching scarf); the aroma of Indian spices; bicycle carts piled high with building materials, computer equipment, and people; cows and pigs wandering in the streets; motor scooters, rickshaws, and buses so crowded with people they were hanging out the doors and on top of the bus. I realized that the experience of getting from one place to another—the congestion, the sheer visual confusion—is the actual India, and I loved it.
I arrived at an inn in Jaipur, thrilled to see my friends Debbie and Lulu. My luggage had not arrived, so Debbie loaned me some floaty garments that would make the Indian heat more bearable.
As ancient customs go, the groom travels to retrieve his beautiful bride—which is why the ceremony began in Jaipur. The festivities started with an arrival party for Shivraj, the groom, followed by the wedding. Some years ago, Shivraj had fallen off his horse and became comatose. Nobody ever believed he would come out of the coma, so this was truly a miracle day.
The wedding was a most spectacular traditional Indian affair. It began with baraat, an Indian wedding tradition: Escorted by his family, the groom arrived on a white horse, with an elephant trailing behind, beautifully painted and garnished with flowers. Lotus blossoms were everywhere, symbolizing that God is with us.
The whirligig of an Indian wedding—jewelry-embellished women, the swish of silk, the cloying fragrance of jasmine, tinkling laughter—is something to behold. There were colors of every sort, with the exception of black, which by custom is not allowed.
A Hindu priest performed the service. He tied the bride and groom together with a rope at the moment they were officially wed—a traditional ritual that symbolized their new bond.
Next, the bride and groom returned to Jodhpur with the wedding guests, where the “coming home” festivities would continue. We took the train to Jodhpur, along with the whole wedding party. The doors of the train stayed open as we scooted through the countryside, which was so full of color and spirit. I was able to take photos and I clicked away, recording the intoxicating bustle of life in India.
At the reception, fireworks burst in the night sky, dinner was served out under the stars, and a beautiful dancer performed. People ultimately like to sing and dance at Indian weddings, so the band played on, and we danced into the early-morning hours.
On my day of departure, I took a taxi to the airport. I wanted to get an earlier flight from Jodhpur to Delhi. (I was originally scheduled to fly out on November 28.) Changing flights is impossible to do in India—there is a strict no-change ticket policy—because you need proof or documentation that you are leaving on your specific, intended flight. I did not have the required proof for the earlier flight, nor did I even have a seat, since the earlier flight was booked solid.
Debbie and her husband, Leopold, had flown out earlier by private plane. Leopold had never canceled his ticket on the commercial flight from Jodhpur to Delhi, so Debbie suggested that I take Leopold’s seat. At least I would have a seat; however, I would have to convince the security officer that I was a man! Downright impossible, for sure.
I spied a round, cuddly-looking chap (I nicknamed him Mr. Cuddles) who seemed to be busy escorting people in and out of the airport. With his help and a few dollars, I bargained my way in.
Some five hours later, as I was about to board, a female security guard got suspicious and caught on to my ruse. She refused to allow me to use the ticket, claiming, correctly, I was not a man! Mr. Cuddles was nowhere in sight to rescue me.
I surrendered to the reality that I’d be staying in Jodhpur, probably until the twenty-eighth. I accepted defeat, when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Cuddles and asked him to intervene. He negotiated furiously in some Indian
dialect with the female guard. She relented, as long as I produced my booking for the twenty-eighth. I scrambled to retrieve it from my BlackBerry so that I could board the plane. I showed it to her, and she was satisfied.
I catapulted onto the plane in the nick of time. I squished myself into a middle seat between two well-fed Indians and kept silent, filled with gratitude. One hour and ten minutes later, we landed in Delhi.
Tired and bedraggled, I still had to fly on to California for a much-needed session with Dr. Phil. I needed to sort through my feelings on Andrew, our past, and the impending Royal wedding.
Dr. Phil didn’t waste any time boring in. “How will this wedding affect or involve you? Will that be a stressful thing or a positive thing for you?”
“It’s had a huge effect on me. I feel deeply, deeply sad. I made so many mistakes in my marriage that I’d like to do it over again.”
“You’ll think back to how you once had that opportunity? Will you be excited for Kate?”
“Oh, completely. It’s wonderful for her, and I know how she feels. But the other side of me is looking and cringing, knowing that I blew everything.”
Dr. Phil sat for a moment and glowered a bit. “You don’t get a do-over, and that stuff will never go away. What you have to do is not react to what happened. Instead, react to what you say to yourself about what happened. If you say, that is the dumbest thing ever in the history of the world, and therefore my life is over, because of bad decisions made, you are sitting on the sidelines waiting to die and feeling sorry for yourself. Then what will your legacy be in this life? Will it be that you made a couple of bad decisions during your marriage? Or will it be what you create from this point forward in your life?”
Finding Sarah Page 18
