My reading? An appalling 9.5. On the cholesterol scale, I had the equivalent of liquid Krispy Kreme doughnuts coursing through my veins.
There are two types of cholesterol; “good” HDL cholesterol, which has a protective function, and “bad” LDL cholesterol, which is harmful. While the overall cholesterol number is important, it is crucial to look at the ratio between the two.
The outlook here was also far from healthy; I had five times as much bad to good cholesterol.
High cholesterol is most often linked with poor diet, obesity and high blood pressure. Moderate alcohol consumption arguably boosts good cholesterol, but stress increases bad cholesterol production. High cholesterol can also be hereditary.
Although I did have an embarrassingly bad diet for an intelligent person (I work from home, a mere two flights of stairs away from the biscuit cupboard), I wasn’t particularly overweight and had low blood pressure.
But I must confess to being unnecessarily, (shamefully) sedentary since breaking my back two years ago in a riding accident, I had been given a clean bill of health by my surgeon, but I remained held back by fear and, if I’m brutally honest, more than a smidgen of self-pity about any form of physical activity.
More saliently however, it was my family background that set off alarm bells. My father died in his 50s of a heart attack while reading me and two of my sisters a story in bed. My mother suffered from angina, had a major heart attack in her early 60s and died two years later.
The indications were that I may have inherited a condition called familial hypercholesterolaemia, where cholesterol is typically 7.5 or greater and the risk of early heart attack is increased.
Two of my (five) sisters were diagnosed with high cholesterol (although not as eye-wateringly elevated as mine) and prescribed the cholesterol-lowering drugs, statins. But one suffered such debilitating side effects – muscular pain, memory loss – that she ditched them, cut out saturated fats, such as butter, cheese and dairy products from her diet and invested in an £800 cross-trainer.
Exercise converts bad LDL to good HDL – and by dint of hard work, she managed to get her levels down through lifestyle changes.
But just looking at her cross-trainer made me feel weary. The reason I had gone to my GP for tests was because I was suffering from aching joints, pains in my legs and a general feeling of torpor.
Despite being 45, I felt about 20 years older, and with two lively daughters, aged eight and three, I was worried I was about to keel over with some terrible affliction. But it appeared that all was normal apart from the cholesterol.
I could, of course, have started taking statins without a second’s thought – they have been hailed in some quarters as a wonder drug, credited not only with dramatically lowering cholesterol, but slashing the risk of breast cancer by 30 per cent, according to Harvard Medical School research published in October.
More than 2.5 million people take them in the UK, and it has even been posited that everyone should be prescribed them as soon as they hit middle age.
Professor Peter Weissberg, medical director of the British Heart Foundation, says newly compiled 11-year data shows that risk of cardiovascular disease rises with age, and statins are a safe and highly effective way of safeguarding health.
“If you are extremely highly motivated, you can reduce your cholesterol and keep it down, but you need to maintain a rigid diet and exercise plan for perhaps 15 years, and most people just don’t do that. You have to be pragmatic.” But there are statin sceptics. One recent review claimed up to 3 million people were taking them needlessly. Telegraph columnist Dr James Le Fanu has long been concerned about what he regards as the over-prescription of statins.
“Too many people with mildly raised cholesterol are routinely given statins when the evidence of their benefit is minimal, if not non-existent,” he says. “There are other ways of reducing cholesterol. However, where there is familial hypercholesterolaemia, it’s reasonable to suggest that statins are beneficial.”
A genetic test would confirm whether I have the condition, but, until then, my instincts told me that I needed to go into crisis- management mode.
And so, after my major Poor Me moment with the Toblerone, I had an epiphany. I would seize back control of my health, lower my cholesterol without recourse to statins, improve my fitness and start practising the Five-a-Day I preach to my children but seldom adhere to myself.
But how? Where on earth to begin? It’s all very well embarking on an ascetic one-woman health regime if you’re Gwyneth Paltrow, but with a hectic job and husband and two children to feed, I felt like I was wading through treacle just to get to the supermarket.
I needed to lose a bit of chub, so I would feel more inclined to exercise. I began by cramming the fridge with Benecol, a range of products including drinks and spreads, which have been shown to lower cholesterol.
I rustled up an emergency vat of vegetable curry (which I ate for every meal for three days straight – I almost said “solid”, but it was quite the opposite). What I needed was to buy myself some time to plan menus, devise meals, stock the cupboard with healthy snacks.
Then, in a Eureka moment, I discovered Soulmate Food, a company that devises tailored, calorie-controlled diets and delivers them to your door, breakfast, snack, lunch, afternoon snack and dinner.
I was prepared to eat anything, no matter how dreary and virtuous as long as I didn’t have to think about it. But, in the event, the low-cholesterol food was spectacularly good, so much so I ended up having to hide it from the children (on normal rations) who would gaze longingly at my apple and vanilla breakfast pancakes like Dickensian urchins.
A typical day comprised mango and passion fruit yoatie, a snack of spiced seeds and mandarin segments, pork ramen for lunch, mixed fruit pot for an afternoon pick-me-up and salmon en papillote for supper.
At £30 a day, it’s not a cheap option, but, when combined with an exercise plan from the company’s fitness consultancy, clients can lose up to two stone in 10 weeks.
I wasn’t interested in my weight, I just wanted to feel more energised – but, gratifyingly, within a week my mummy tummy was melting away, my face had lost podge I never knew it had and friends were remarking on how slim I was looking.
As I was no longer pumping petrol into my body’s diesel engine, I could sense my metabolism revving up a gear. My aches and pains had disappeared and, after three weeks, it was as though I had shrink-wrapped into the neat shape I used to be – regardless of my cholesterol, I was more energised, happier and walking more briskly.
And so I was ready to embark on The Final Push; a week at boot camp. Mindful that exercise would pummel my bad cholesterol into submission, I was ready to do what it took to get fit – fast.
Call me naive, but I thought a stay in a lovely Jacobean pile in Suffolk would be relaxing, with yoga, nutrition advice and life coaching and a bit of keep fit. I swear I didn’t notice the military boot-print logos plastered over the website.
It was only when I glanced through the Essential Kit List, the day before departure, that misgivings began to creep in.
Phrases as “high-visibility vest and head torch for night marches”, “waterproof trousers” and “five sports bras” drew me up short. Did any woman on the planet (apart, possibly, from Dame Kelly Holmes) own five sports bras? I didn’t own any.
The day before I left, I saw my GP who was adamant I should start on statins. He stressed that they wouldn’t have an effect for several weeks so, reluctantly, I did as he recommended.
Then events overtook me; boot camp was seven days of sheer, unmitigated hell. It was worse, even, than childbirth, because, for all its faults, the NHS doesn’t usually shout dog’s abuse at you, to jump higher, squat deeper, run faster and dispense punishments “Thirty sit-ups! Fifty lunges!” on an apparent whim.
There was running and boxing, circuit training and battle PT when we had to sprint, laden with pretend rocket launchers and ammunition, jog carrying 20kg stretchers and try to throw golf-ball grenades into a barrel. This was interspersed with weight training and crunches, relay races and unspeakable things called burpees. And that was just day one.
Collapsed, face down, in the mud, I absolutely hated it. Flanks heaving like a racehorse, sweat pouring off my face, I thought my lungs would burst. But, hand on heart, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Women had flown in from Finland, Singapore and Dubai; one woman had come to improve her fertility, another was on the verge of being officially diagnosed as obese, a third just wanted to slip into a body-con dress by Christmas.
Food rations at the camp were tiny – but enough. Thanks to my diet boxes, my stomach had shrunk inside as well as out, but there were dark hours when I had to force myself to focus on why I was there; to win my fight against cholesterol.
The camp ethos of No Excuses, was hugely inspirational. Besides, nobody listened when I whinged about once having broke my back “You’re walking aren’t you? Start running. Or you’ll all have 50 press-ups to do.” It was the wake-up call I needed, and one that only a bellowing shaven-headed stranger in Army fatigues could have delivered.
By day four, we were flagging, until one of the trainers – ex-RAF, with muscles like Popeye – observed that the company no longer ran all-male boot camps, because men just lost their tempers (and their bottle), jumped into their cars and drove home. It was such an exquisite revelation that it buoyed us up beyond measure.
Over the week, I lost eight inches off my body and gained an inch of muscle on each of my thighs, which has led to their UN reclassification as lethal weapons.
And my cholesterol levels? Down from 9.5 to a staggering 5.9! Excuse the exclamation mark, but I am thrilled!
I went to a private walk-in clinic to be tested as my GP wasn’t keen to recheck me so soon. A full analysis showed the proportion of bad cholesterol to good has also been reduced, and now stands at three to one.
My head is clear, my skin glows with endorphins and I feel physically – and psychologically – empowered. I have boot camp recipe sheets to cook from and exotic diet delivery dishes I can create myself. There is a cross-trainer in my basement.
I plan to give up statins, unless a genetic test reveals I do have familial hypercholesterolaemia, in which case I will take medical advice.
If not, my cholesterol levels will be checked every three months, and if the reading changes and I need to take statins, then so be it.
What is disturbingly obvious to me is that I could have popped a pill, stuck to my dodgy diet and continued firing on no cylinders. What a depressing thought.
Now, I feel leaner and fitter than I have done in decades and, without wishing to sound like Gwyneth, I care too much about my body to clog it up with junk.
Whatever happens now, I feel equipped to face the future – I’ve even booked a top-up fitness day for next month. Because I firmly believe that boot camps should be offered on the NHS long before statins are handed out.
