Jamison Hill: From Bodybuilder To BedBound - The Book

Cort

Founder of Health Rising and Phoenix Rising
Staff member
Jamison provides an introduction to and an excerpt from his 200 page plus book, "Not Like the Whiskey" chronicling his 6 year struggle with ME/CFS​

Introduction
"None and I mean NONE of this makes sense." Jamison Hill
In the time I've been sick, especially the last year bed bound, I've come to realize nothing about this disease makes the faintest amount of sense. There are many people that don't think it's real, or don't understand it, and I don't blame them. Well, sometimes I do, but I would've felt the same prior to getting sick. There is, however, something about walking around one day and being too weak to lift a pen the next that makes one realize this is very real.

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[/fright]It is a paradoxical disease filled with many smaller paradoxes. Here I am on a rectangular mattress in a rectangular room within a square house, a year into my stay in bed--unable to speak complete sentences, chew food or sit up on my own. It's completely dark and I'm wearing pink tanning goggles (yes, pink) and thick earplugs yet I'm somehow able to write this on my own. I can also listen to podcasts and whisper words on the phone. Through a straw I can taste lobster ravioli with pesto. I can still hug and kiss, and sometimes when I'm mad, I can throw stuff across the room.


None and I mean NONE of this makes sense, especially how a small victory like reaching for something beside my bed is usually followed by a horrible crash. I am in a dark room yet through tanning goggles I can type these words on my phone. I can't explain this or why I can roll on my side but can't lift my head off the pillow. Nor does it make sense that I can audibly cough and sneeze but can't talk above a whisper.

I can't explain why I'm able to swallow pills but not food or how come I can be stuck with a needle but being touched is at times too painful. Still, within these paradoxes lies gifts of reprieve from my suffering and that is what keeps me going.

I'm grateful for the little luxuries and most of all I'm grateful for the support and love I've received through the ME community. Seldom have I seen such swift dividends fall my way. Your contributions have given me a great doctor with a solid plan and so far it's working.

For the last several years I've been writing a memoir (yeah, yeah, I know, who hasn't been writing a memoir) and just finished but I need help getting it published. If anyone has a literary contact please email me at jhillzer07@gmail.com. It's surely for my own ego but more so to bring awareness. The book starts with a bodybuilder and ends with a severely ill man in bed. It's sad but hopeful and filled all my depth.

Curious? You can find an excerpt below.

Excerpt From "Not Like the Whiskey"

2.10.2015

I finish a sip of water, pinching the straw with my index finger and thumb. I look at my mom and chuckle.
"Are you sure you don't want a joint?" she asks jokingly. We both laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation as she returns the water glass to my bedside table.

The situation is truly ridiculous. This glass, for instance, is the closest I've come to running water since I last got out of bed. It’s been weeks since I've had a shower. Yesterday, desperate, I tried and failed miserably at getting to the bathroom for a shower.

The plan was to have my mom push me across the floor on a snowboard until I reached the bathtub. But when the time came my body gave out. I laboriously sat up and slid off the bed onto the snowboard, but as my mom pushed me curled up in the fetal position, I only got sicker. I eventually retreated back to bed, still unbathed, where I have remained mostly motionless for the last thirty hours.

The recovery has been brutal, even cataclysmic. The first twelve hours after my snowboard excursion were the worst. It appeared that death was still near and waiting. My body filled with an intense sickness, weakness and inflammation so profound it seemed the only logical thing to come was death. I can’t imagine feeling any worse, but I know if my mom had kept pushing the board, I would have. Still, I can’t help but laugh at the thought of a tiny five foot-nothing woman pushing a hundred and sixty pound bag of meat and bones on a snowboard.

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[/fleft]Almost immediately after lying back in bed, my body flared with a tantrum of symptoms including a rollercoaster heart rate reaching upwards of 150 BPM. Which would be normal for someone on a jog, not lying flat and motionless in bed. In contrast, the last time I did a few push-ups, filming for Forgotten Plague, my heart rate was still nowhere near 150.

Now as I lay in bed sipping water from a straw, my heart rate has steadied but my sensitivity to light and sound continue. I must wear a sleeping mask and earplugs all the time. There is also a new concern: communication. For some reason, at some point in the last two days I lost the ability to talk louder than a whisper, and to make communication worse, I can’t speak sentences, only one word at a time. A few weeks ago I was saying thousands of words a day, now I’m stuck in single digits.

Luckily, most of my needs are met by using hand signals. I point to my stomach for food, and I pretend to smoke a joint when I need water. When nature calls, I either use a sports bottle my mom has affectionately deemed the pee bottle, or I show her two fingers and she brings in a bucket for me to squat on off the bed. It is not the heavy weight lifting squats of my past, but somehow it’s more taxing on my muscles. I was so embarrassed the first time I slid the bucket back to my mom, but in her nurturing fashion she told me it’s just like this now, it won’t be forever.

It seems some energy has returned after yesterday’s flare up. I should savor it, but after hours of nothing, my mind wants to do something. I’m tired of the boredom, pain and misery. I want excitement, passion and pleasure. I grab my phone and search for some unintelligible keywords. In seconds I’m watching two relative strangers do what people do in pornos, objectify themselves. But as the excitement hits, my body fails. My heart is racing and misery, agony, the feeling of death is back. Perhaps I too have objectified myself. It hurts so much and as I hide my phone in necessity, I fear my heart will not hold up. Death may actually be knocking this time

Looking back on the last six years, my current situation feels both humbling and heartbreaking. But it also feels eerily fateful, as if it has been waiting up on the horizon the entire time, but I failed to see it, and now that it’s right in front of me I have no choice but to crash head on . . .

Nearly Six Years Earlier . . .

6.13.2009

The wind on the Napa River Bridge feels like thumbtacks poking my face. The concrete shoulder is cold and blemished, a place I have only been a few times on other highways waiting for a tow. My arms cling to the railing like a child on an inner tube floating in the water below.

All I can think about is what it would feel like to jump—maybe nothing, maybe everything; maybe, just for a second, like floating in space. It almost sounds appealing, but it’s a thought as surreal as it sounds, and one that should not be entertained for long. Surviving such a fall—like the teenager who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge head-first—would be about the least fun imaginable—that is, except what has just happened.

As I turn away from the water and thumbtacks, my nebulous eyes find the wreckage and short trail of tire marks leading up to it. The amount of gasoline on the road reminds me of one of those overzealous action movies with the inevitable always seeming to happen. Hopefully life doesn’t imitate art on this occasion, but it may be too late for that. Fifteen gallons of gas is now streaming from my 4Runner’s ripped fuel line—a deluge running down the bridge. Most frightening is the other car—a pluming inferno only feet from where the gas is pooling. All at once I am in a haze, and it is no longer entirely clear where I was going or why.

[fright]
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[/fright]After stopping to fill up with gas just off Highway 4 in Martinez, I drove up Cummings Skyway, jerking for glimpses of the water and the Carquinez Bridge. I was messing with the radio, or rather, it was messing with me. I was trying to find the perfect song on one of three good stations. Frustrated with the selection, I pulled out my phone to connect the auxiliary cord attached to the stereo. I fiddled with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the phone reaching for the cord—it was a dangerous distraction, but I was invincible, or maybe just untouchable—the type of feeling that you expect to be around a year from now, still alive, still healthy.

The cord finally connected and with one tap of my iPhone, the perfect song hummed through the speakers. It felt inspirational, like watching a montage of the World Series or Super Bowl synced to a fitting soundtrack. There I was, descending—or more like floating—down to Interstate 80 and across the Carquinez Strait with what seemed like a fun evening ahead…but a fun evening was not ahead. Instead, the Napa River Bridge was waiting like it never had before.

The gradual incline of the bridge was a dangerous illusion, creating a blind spot up in the distance. Apparently it was more dangerous than trying to connect some stupid auxiliary cord while driving. I drove up the bridge, expecting to make it to the other side like any other driver, but at its crest was a car stopped in my lane. Never in my life has so much happened in so few seconds.

There was the throttle, the brake, the crash, the flames, the explosion. Then, the sizzling sound—a fairly recognizable sound—you could go your entire life hearing it: an overcooked piece of meat still in the oven, a flaming marshmallow in a campfire, but once you associate it with burning human flesh, it changes you.

A stranger taps me.

“Sir? Sir? …Sir! Do you know where the other driver is? Is he…in that car?” the man asks, pointing to the burning wreckage.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Yes,” I say, needing to escape.

Retreating back to my post on the bridge railing, there is nothing to keep me company, no one thing to offer comfort. Not even the vast and calming slough on the horizon can sooth the turbulence of this moment.

Across the median cars are stopped, drivers and passengers watching in awe, some taking pictures of the giant fireball to my right. I want them all to go away, or better, I want to go back in time, rewind to an hour ago and just stay there. Then I wouldn’t have to think about all the things that could have veered my fate away from this moment—a phone call, a stoplight, a bathroom break—and the one failed diversion that haunts me most: a soy corn dog.

In a rush, I’d passed on an offer from my friend, David, to enjoy the meatless snack. “Hey, how ‘bout a corn dog before you go?” he’d asked. “They're almost ready….”

“Man, you know I would, but I have tickets to the Giants game and need to stop home in Rohnert Park first. But hey, don’t you think it’s a little weird that you love beef, but would rather eat a soy corn dog over the real thing?” I’d said, leaning toward the door.

“No, I like them.”

I should have stayed. I like them too. It wasn’t twenty-four hours earlier that David and I had an almost identical conversation, except then, I’d stopped to relax and eat. It was a small yet fateful part of a wonderful weekend reconnecting with friends from high school, but it all seems so far away now, like a story from a past generation.

Below the cylindrical railing, there is a gap of air before the bridge turns entirely to concrete. My head fits nicely; it is a slice of shelter where the thumbtacks can’t get me. Wispy clouds float above, shading the sun. Chin resting on grainy concrete, forehead on cold metal, I call my mom. She doesn’t answer the first five times, or the second. I try my dad. He won’t be here for hours. Next I call David. He and his son, my other friend, Ian, will meet me at the hospital.

The municipal workers are now on-scene, disbursing to their duties like members of an ant colony. After a lead from a witness, they eventually hone-in on me with fervor and confusion. Some appear detached, apathetic, and without condolence, while others seem sympathetic, but are more puzzled than concerned.

The officer in charge tests my motor skills to see if I’m drunk in the middle of the day. Hard to blame him; it’s his job. He eventually clears me as I see the ambulance zig-zagging through traffic on the bridge.

On the ride to the hospital the paramedic is more genuine than a politician, but less comforting than a friend. We arrive at the hospital, Solano Something. Remembering the name of a hospital is like trying to remember the name of a road in the desert; they all look the same and you are too focused on getting the hell out of there to care.

I step out of the ambulance and walk into the emergency room under my own accord, looking healthier than the nurse waiting to greet me. Inside, an ER doctor takes a seat next to me. He looks to be a confident man in his early-forties, but grey-haired and uncovered by the dark bags under his eyes.

“Hi, Jamison, like the whiskey?” the doctor asks.

“No, it’s spelled with an i, not like the whiskey with an e.”

“Great name, but seems they got it wrong on your form. We will fix it. Also, we have some juice and crackers coming for you. Sorry, it’s all there is at the moment.”

“That’s fine.”

“So, Jamison, I see you have a small abrasion on your forehead, how do you feel? Any dizziness or pain in the rest of your body?”

“Uh, no, I feel fine.”

“Well you can thank your airbag it seems.”

“Um, I didn’t have one.”

“Well that’s miraculous for such a serious accident. So we’re going to keep you for a couple hours just to make sure you don’t have anything serious going on. Now, I…know it may not be exactly the same, but I have some idea what you’re going through. I was in a pretty bad car accident myself—woke up in the hospital with a broken jaw, concussion, and a bunch of shattered bones.”

“Oh,” I mumble.

[fleft]
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[/fleft]“Who knows why people like you and I are spared. Could be to live on and help others—I’ve taken that cue—could be to finish what we started in life, or it could just be plain luck. I’ll bet you don’t have the slightest idea why this happened, or maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but I bet at least part of you is wondering why you’re still alive, remarkably so, and why the other guy isn’t. It’s all yours to figure out, Jamison…or not—your choice. But I’m here to tell you, if you’re anything like me, there’s a good chance you’re going to get so frustrated trying to make sense of all the bad things that happen in your life, especially this, that you may want to give up. Maybe you already do, but if you’re as intelligent as you seem, in that moment it will all make as much sense as it needs to.”

A red gloss coats his tired, sincere eyes as he gives me a look, a certain look that makes me believe there is a purpose to this tragedy—for me to discover something, perhaps the person I am bound to become.

This car accident is going to change me, for good or bad there’s no way around it, but I am determined to still be a good person.

The doctor grabs my shoulder while the look lingers a little longer. We both breathe deep, sniffle, and rub our eyes in different order. It feels good—a minute or so of mutual catharsis, and for me, self-realization.

7.14.2009

It’s 1:28 in the morning. Leaving now will get me to the gym by two and done with my workout before the sun comes up. After grabbing a pre-workout supplement—a proprietary blend of unregulated amphetamine-like substances—water jug, and gym bag, I walk out to the car. My phone now says it’s 1:30.

The drive to the gym is reflective but uneasy. The last thing I want is to be in a car right now, and watching bad drivers makes the feeling worse. The car in front of me keeps swerving, almost rhythmically, as if the driver is still partially in control and coherent, but distracted. Maybe he’s trying to connect an auxiliary cord or something dumb like that. I don’t think much of it, only your typical cynicism laced with mild concern: Look at this idiot. He’s going to lose control, bounce off the median, and smash through the windshield while taking out five other cars, and killing everyone in a bloody, broken-glass-everywhere, fiery mess.

Similar flashes, stirred by an often-antagonistic voice in my head, have been popping up more frequently. Last week on the Richmond Bridge I saw my car careen over the railing and into the Bay. Right as I was taking a last gulp of air, trapped in the corner of my capsized car, a voice brought me back to a reality of taillights. This voice I often hear is my own, and not schizophrenic, but it is definitely more honest and abrasive than any side I outwardly show, and it is perhaps even irrational at times. I won’t pretend to know what it means—maybe it’s a byproduct of feeling helpless in a situation I can’t control, maybe it’s the voice of the older brother I never had, maybe it’s underlying guilt for the car accident, or maybe I just don’t want to know.

There is no doubt I am a little messed up right now—okay, I am really messed up right now—but it would be weird not to go a little mad after killing someone. There are common, not even necessarily healthy ways of coping, and then there is my way of coping. Turning in after a night surrounded by family would make sense for some people, but not the mad ones. Venting to friends at a bar would be most appropriate by the standards of my peers, but not the mad ones. I, on the other hand, am going to the gym because, well, I am one of the mad ones.

[fright]
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[/fright]Who the hell works out in the middle of the night? Oh, the mad ones, right? Come on, you don’t even like Kerouac.

There is nobody at the front desk when I walk in, so I pull out my wallet and mockingly flash my membership card to the overtly happy cardboard employee. I then return the card to its place in my wallet, which happens to be next to the laminated hospital bracelet I saved after the car accident. I wore it for a week, then folded it in my wallet for safe keeping until I find a better place for it.

Next I routinely whisk my way to the gym floor. It is empty and illuminated, humming with electricity—the same as it will be in a few hours when the early birds arrive.

There is something, perhaps many things, to love about an empty gym. There is peace, comfort, and an almost unexplainable feeling of privilege just to be there, like standing in an empty stadium, or witnessing the calm of the ocean after a storm. For me, it conjures a rare, personal, and oddly emotive causatum, like finding nostalgia in a single light on a dark landscape, or crying while watching a comedy.

In this single moment in time, it feels as though this is where I am supposed to be, this is where my coping, my healing, and all my other inner processes are meant to happen, and for good reason. There is no body to ask about the best protein powder to buy, or how much creatine to take; there is just a few thousand pounds of iron and a couple rows of human versions of hamster wheels.

I am lucky. A 24-hour gym is almost never empty. Even at this hour, there is usually some rebellious teen taking selfies on the recumbent bike, or an old guy air drumming as he walks on the treadmill. Believe it or not, these are my people. They never bother me, but are instead exceptionally comforting to share a space with.

They are your people, really? Of course, that’s because they barely exist to you, they are less than strangers; they are inanimate, like a bookshelf. You just want them to serve their purpose, and stay out of your way. It makes sense; then they can’t hurt you. They won’t, by some freak twist of fate, almost end you. Well, congratulations, that’s one way to go; you are now a walking, breathing, miserable and bitter misanthrope.

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In the locker room I change into an old sleeveless T-shirt. My phone now shows 1:58. After a swig of water I pop in an untangled ear bud, then the other, as a mellow Jack Johnson song fades in and my thoughts fade out.

I charge the weight rack as if it just called me some derogatory name, or told me I can’t do something…or stopped its car in the middle of the highway and just sat there waiting to end your life, or maybe it was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Grabbing two sixty-pound dumbbells, I do presses, then repeat with eighties, ninety-fives, hundreds, and finally finish the last set with one-tens. Next is a circuit of dumbbell flies, cable presses, and plyometric push-ups.

Then I do this thing most people wouldn’t even call an exercise—except it is, everything is. It’s basically a handstand against the wall followed by an inverted push-up. It works the shoulder muscles, but is mainly meant to show off to all the people in the gym, which at three in the morning is no one.

The last hour of the workout is the toughest. It starts with two forty-five-pound plates. Getting them on my back without a spotter is difficult, but I shimmy both behind my back and wiggle them into position. I get ten reps before falling to the blue plastic mat. It is sticky, so sticky. Removing the plates from my back is futile at this point, so they stay put until the next set.

Sprawled out with ninety pounds pinning me to the mat, my mouth about an inch from a Petri dish of at least a dozen people’s sweat. I look up, and the clock shows it’s 4:48.

There is no place I’d rather be.
 
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Tina

Well-Known Member
Funny how our eyes/brains work differently. While I do like frequent paragraph breaks, I also like the pictures as they help to break up the text. I often associate a certain picture with a certain article or maybe even a certain point in a lengthy article. Kind of like associating a book cover with a book makes it easier to find sometimes.
 

bobby

Well-Known Member
I have only been able to read the introduction so far. NONE of this makes any sense, that is so very true. And I like his writing style. so I'll definitely try to read the rest!
 

GG

Well-Known Member
Funny how our eyes/brains work differently. While I do like frequent paragraph breaks, I also like the pictures as they help to break up the text. I often associate a certain picture with a certain article or maybe even a certain point in a lengthy article. Kind of like associating a book cover with a book makes it easier to find sometimes.
I would rather not have non-relevent pics in an article, shortens the number of pages printed, less ink. I sometimes share these things in support group settings, so anything to save some money!

GG
 

Cort

Founder of Health Rising and Phoenix Rising
Staff member
Available in PDF? Also, can you take out the Pics that are not highly relevant?

GG
PDF's are available for the Health Rising blogs but not yet for the Xenforo posts. I will put it on my list.
 

Onslow

Active Member
I have only been able to read the introduction so far. NONE of this makes any sense, that is so very true. And I like his writing style. so I'll definitely try to read the rest!
Actually, I think it makes perfect sense. PTSD from a car accident, amphetamines, overtraining and sleep deprivation. From what I understand of CFS, those are all classic triggers for CFS. Just to be clear, I'm not blaming him for his illness. That's just the way the brain seems to work...it shuts down the energy supply when things like this happen and it's difficult to recover from.
 

Cort

Founder of Health Rising and Phoenix Rising
Staff member
Actually, I think it makes perfect sense. PTSD from a car accident, amphetamines, overtraining and sleep deprivation. From what I understand of CFS, those are all classic triggers for CFS. Just to be clear, I'm not blaming him for his illness. That's just the way the brain seems to work...it shuts down the energy supply when things like this happen and it's difficult to recover from.
It's certainly possible; that was a major stressor which could have left him vulnerable to ME/CFS or for other problems...I know Jamison reflects about that in the book;
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
Actually, I think it makes perfect sense. PTSD from a car accident, amphetamines, overtraining and sleep deprivation. From what I understand of CFS, those are all classic triggers for CFS.
I don't think there is any evidence that these are triggers. They may be host factors but I doubt they are direct triggers.
 

Onslow

Active Member
I don't think there is any evidence that these are triggers. They may be host factors but I doubt they are direct triggers.
Why do you say that? There is quite a lot of evidence that CFS is triggered by stress, that the stress system is dysfunctional in patients in ways that is consistent with chronic stress, and the ways people recover seem to be consistent with this as well (reducing negative stress and increasing positive stress).
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
Why do you say that? There is quite a lot of evidence that CFS is triggered by stress, that the stress system is dysfunctional in patients in ways that is consistent with chronic stress, and the ways people recover seem to be consistent with this as well (reducing negative stress and increasing positive stress).
The terms you are using are too generic to be meaningful. If you want to define "stress" as physiological stress, such as that caused by a chronic viral infection, then sure there is evidence for that. I don't think there is any evidence that psychiatric stress causes or maintains this disease.
 

Onslow

Active Member
The terms you are using are too generic to be meaningful. If you want to define "stress" as physiological stress, such as that caused by a chronic viral infection, then sure there is evidence for that. I don't think there is any evidence that psychiatric stress causes or maintains this disease.
There is evidence that all types of stress trigger CFS. Physical and psychological stresses have similar effects in the brain, and both appear to be triggers of CFS. I'm not sure why there is such desire to downplay the effect of psychological stress. Psychological stressors appeared to be important in my own CFS, and that of other people I have talked to. For others, there are physical stressors, such as overtraining. The end result (CFS) appears to be the same either way, and it seem to fit what we know about how the brain is affected by chronic long-term stress.

Fatigue itself is an emotion, even if it is due to physical exertion. Ever wondered why even healthy people get temporarily depressed when they overtrain, or are sleep deprived? You can't neatly separate physical and emotional stressors. The brain simply doesn't work like that...
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
Fatigue itself is an emotion, even if it is due to physical exertion.
That would be great if fatigue was all there was to this disease but it's not. People have peripheral organ and nerve damage. There is objective muscle dysfunction. These are not things that can be caused by effects of psychological stress on the brain.
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
I'm not sure why there is such desire to downplay the effect of psychological stress. Psychological stressors appeared to be important in my own CFS, and that of other people I have talked to. For others, there are physical stressors, such as overtraining. The end result (CFS) appears to be the same either way, and it seem to fit what we know about how the brain is affected by chronic long-term stress.
Again, these are host factors that modify immune function, not direct triggers.
 

Onslow

Active Member
That would be great if fatigue was all there was to this disease but it's not.
I never said it was.

People have peripheral organ and nerve damage. There is objective muscle dysfunction. These are not things that can be caused by effects of psychological stress on the brain.
Agreed those things could not be caused by psychological stress. However many (most?) CFS patients don't have that type of damage. I'm also not aware of any studies showing nerve or organ damage. Do you have references for that? There was a study recently by Pietrangelo showing CFS patients had more type 2 fibres. However an earlier study (Lane, 1997) didn't find that. Also - as pointed out by Lane - inactivity results in a shift from type-1 to type-2 fibres, so it isn't a marker for "dysfunction" as such.
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
I'm also not aware of any studies showing nerve or organ damage. Do you have references for that?
Elizabeth Dowsett points this out:
After a variable interval, a multi-system syndrome may develop, involving permanent damage to skeletal or cardiac muscle and to other "end organs" such as the liver, pancreas, endocrine glands and lymphoid tissues, signifying the further development of a lengthy chronic, mainly neurological condition with evidence of metabolic dysfunction in the brain stem.
I'm not sure if there is any research on nerve function in ME. Personally, I have evidence of denervation/reinnervation super sensitivity in sudomotor nerve fibers and evidence of damage to cardiovascular sympathetic nerve fibers and the autonomic dysfunction that goes along with that.
 

Onslow

Active Member
I never heard of any of those being "classic" triggers for CFS. Where is that documented? The big problem with figuring out MECFS is there isn't a classic trigger.
The classic trigger is stress or infection:

http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0022395696000507
http://journals.cambridge.org/action/displayAbstract?fromPage=online&aid=179439&fileId=S0033291703008274

I was just giving those as common examples of stresses that people report as occurring before their illness (trauma, overtraining and sleep deprivation).
 

Onslow

Active Member
Elizabeth Dowsett points this out:
Seems to be from an out-of-print book from 2001 by John Richardson, which I don't have access to. I don't remember seeing any peer-reviewed studies showing this, but if you have some I'd be interested in seeing them.

I'm not sure if there is any research on nerve function in ME. Personally, I have evidence of denervation/reinnervation super sensitivity in sudomotor nerve fibers and evidence of damage to cardiovascular sympathetic nerve fibers and the autonomic dysfunction that goes along with that.
What evidence is that? Bear in mind that changes in parasympathetic and sympathetic activity don't automatically mean there is damage.
 

weyland

Well-Known Member
What evidence is that? Bear in mind that changes in parasympathetic and sympathetic activity don't automatically mean there is damage.
From a full battery of autonomic testing. With the sudomotor fibers yes there is damage, this is shown easily with QSART testing and mine showed both loss of function and denervation super sensitivity. Yes, you're right I can't prove that the other fibers are damaged, but it's a distinct possibility given the other evidence of sympathetic nerve damage and I'm not going to have my spinal cord or sympathetic ganglia cut apart to prove it to you.
 

Onslow

Active Member
From a full battery of autonomic testing. With the sudomotor fibers yes there is damage, this is shown easily with QSART testing and mine showed both loss of function and denervation super sensitivity. Yes, you're right I can't prove that the other fibers are damaged, but it's a distinct possibility given the other evidence of sympathetic nerve damage and I'm not going to have my spinal cord or sympathetic ganglia cut apart to prove it to you.
I had similar autonomic dysfunction, but it has completely gone now, so I don't think it was damage.
 

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