January 28, 2010
Dear Diary:
Even given hospital routine, there seems to be an unusual number of people taking blood from my arm. They only have one to choose from because the other one is already taken. It’s siphoning off something from a bag way above my head. Just to increase the interest, the nurse who put in the original port placed it right in the crook of my elbow so every time I remotely bend my arm, such as scratching, it sets off an alarm bell which is only satisfied by a bustling body. To avoid giving the already over-worked staff so much trouble, I lie with my arm rigid and immobile. This matches my left leg.
I don’t concern myself with the numerous vials of blood until white coats enter the room with glum expressions on their faces. “You look very pale.” “No blush,” I say. “Are you always this pale?” “I haven’t looked at myself and I don’t want to. I’ve never gone this long without bronzer.” “We’re concerned about your blood levels.” “Oh!” “They’re dropping quite alarmingly.” “Oh.” “You’ll feel a lot better if we give you a transfusion.”
Transfusion! Arthur Ashe! Hepatitis! Rare blood disease! Someone else’s blood in my body!
“You know, the screening processes now are so thorough. There’s a one in a million chance of anything getting through.” I know that. We have the Blood Mobile come to our company. I’ve been through the screening process and in my view it was too thorough. However, I still don’t like the odds of one in a million. I’m finally convinced when I collapse trying to make it to the commode. Blood it is.
Not so fast. The insurance company has to approve it first. I wait breathlessly. Then finally, it’s a go. A nameless, faceless person somewhere in the ether has checked the box.
I expect the transfusion to be a half-hour job. In fact, it takes sixteen hours – eight hours for each bag. Whoever you are who donated two pints of A+ blood to Berkshire Medical Center, thank you because I do feel a lot better afterwards. That is until Bob repeats his idea of beaming me into the conference. YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!
I double my efforts with my home-grown nutrition program, mixing together concoctions that baffle the nurses. They tend to congregate in my room to smell the flowers and to read the labels in my health food store. They assure me that it won’t be long before I can put one foot in front of the other again. I tentatively ask them that if I had to shoot some video, is there a space they could recommend. I tell them that I don’t want grey walls – something flesh toned. One suggests the chapel with the stained glass window behind me. Perhaps we should have organ music for some background ambience!
I don’t know how this crazy idea can possibly work. It certainly can’t be live because who knows what would happen. I mean, I might even cry. The only possibility is if it’s taped and edited to cut out any embarrassing bits. But how am I going to do my hair? My makeup? I can’t even sit in a chair yet. Oh, just forget the whole thing!
I lie in bed and look at the white/grey wall in front of me with its boxes of Latex gloves and the bulletin board with the daily schedule. My eyes drift right to take in the flower arrangements on the shelves by the door. I feel better. They lift my mood. And then, as if in a wave, I see all the spas I’ve visited over the years, all those caring people who work there, all the beautiful rooms, the fragrance, the candles, the music, and I understand in a way I’ve never understood before that this is what our bodies want and need. This is the way they heal surrounded by things that nurture our spirits, that make us feel more positive, that drive away negativity.
I begin to fantasize an experiment. What if this hospital, instead of putting Latex gloves and a bulletin board on the wall, showed a mural of a garden in full bloom or a beach with coconuts washing up on shore? I wonder if patients would heal faster and be released sooner. I bet the insurance companies would love that. I bet they’d even pay for the murals.
Wait, here comes that familiar sound. “Just checking your vitals. Which is your bad leg?” I start to answer and catch myself. “It isn’t my bad leg; it’s my injured leg. And soon it’s going to be running a mile again – in high heels.”
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 08, 2010
E.R.
January 24, 2010
Dear Diary:
As my stretcher is rolled into the emergency waiting area, it’s clear that it’s a busy night. Our small quiet country hospital has been transformed into what looks like a frantic scene from a television pilot – Black Ice Blues. Amid the chaos, I have absolutely no recollection of losing my exercise clothes for a hospital gown and so the anticipated embarrassment of being caught wearing no underwear is a non-event. See, mum, I told you that you worry too much.
And I still don’t really know what the injury is. I know I’ve broken something but what? The x-rays are withheld from me partly because the pain killers have left me so out of it that I couldn’t make a decision anyway and partly because I don’t want to see them. Eventually, I’m told that I’ve shattered my femur and that I’m to be transferred to another hospital for surgery the next morning. The sooner one repairs this kind of break, the better the result one can expect – expert that I am. (It’s six weeks before I eventually see the x-rays and understand what I really did to myself. I wish I’d never known.)
The 45-minute journey by ambulance to the next hospital ends with a bout of motion sickness performed for the amusement of the milling throng in the waiting room. It’s amazing how fast those little pink trays appear.
The next morning while I’m answering some e-mails, a delegation enters to tell me that surgery will be at 2:00 pm. I feel remarkably calm and I can’t understand why. All the things I’ve dreaded for so long – serious injury, major surgery, anesthesia, drugs, confinement, loss of independence – should conspire to render me a nervous wreck… but I’m not. I feel calm and lucid with a sense of acceptance that surprises me. Let’s just get this done.
An interesting conversation with the anesthesiologist completes my morning. He lays out some choices for me – general anesthesia or epidural. Actually, I’m the one who asks about the epidural. “We could do that,” he says, “but there’ll be a lot of sawing and drilling going on and you’ll be lying on a stainless steel table for three hours which isn’t that comfortable.” “Give me the general. I’ll live with the consequences.” As I’m wheeled into surgery, he puts a mask over my face and says, “Just some oxygen.” You can’t fool me! In my last act of independence, I take the mask off my face and say: “This isn’t oxygen.”
And that’s it – gone. Then, “Jane! Jane! Jane! Wake-up!” It’s over. I have 16” of titanium and four bolts holding my femur together. Actually, that isn’t all but I don’t know about that yet.
The surgeon reports an excellent result and that he expects full recovery. I suppose I should be enormously relieved to hear this, but honestly it didn’t occur to me that there wouldn’t be full recovery. Perhaps if it had, I wouldn’t have been so calm.
Since hospital routine is new to me, I’m quite impressed by the number of people who are in and out of my room wheeling in all kinds of contraptions. “Just getting some blood.” “Just getting blood pressure and temperature.” “Did you fill out the menu for meal service?” “Bed pan or commode?” “Give me the one where I don’t have to move.” “You have to move. The sooner you move, the faster you’ll heal.” At the moment moving seems like such a remote possibility that I just lie back and listen to the Code Blue announcements. Wait; here comes someone else, “Just checking your dressings.” On go another pair of Latex gloves – the eleventh pair this afternoon that have been removed from the dispenser on the wall opposite me. It’s unfathomable how many gloves a hospital must use every day. Do they get recycled? Do they biodegrade? I make a note to find out when I’m back in the real world.
And then in comes the first floral arrangement. Its beauty against the starkness of the hospital room quite overwhelms me. I lie staring at it marveling at the shapes, colors and delicacy of this fragrant visitor. I feel my spirits rising. I will get over this. And then Bob arrives with my supplements and grocery order. He stacks packages around the room – hemp milk, almonds, sprouted soy, raisins, cooked salmon, home-made soup, probiotics, colostrom, omega-3 capsules. So much stuff that the nurses wheel in another table for me. It isn’t long before my room looks like a cross between a florist and a health food store.
The beauty of the flowers, the touching messages, the sense of taking charge of my healing help me to face what I know has to come next. Everyone’s leaving to go to the conference and I’m not. My whole support team is going to be two thousand miles away hosting our national sales team, our international distributors and our world-wide educators. I can’t bring myself to think about it. One hurdle at a time. Let’s conquer the commode first.
Before Bob leaves for the night, he mentions something about videoing me into the conference. I dismiss the idea as ludicrous. No one’s going to see me like this.
I’m not alone that night. I have unexpected companions called Venus Boots. These white cuffs wrap around my lower legs and vibrate up and down them all night long. This electronic massage is designed to lessen the risk of blood clots. (Another wonderful gadget.) I don’t just feel massage though, I feel something else from the Venus Boots; I feel less alone. With every cupping and uncupping of my legs, I hear Venus saying, “It’s OK. I’ve got you.” When I tell the nurse the next morning that I’m so enchanted by my night visitors that I’ve dubbed them angel hands, she gives me one of those looks that says: Let me know if you’re still saying that a week from now.
So the journey begins. Tomorrow, I learn how to make my bed go up and down.
Dear Diary:
As my stretcher is rolled into the emergency waiting area, it’s clear that it’s a busy night. Our small quiet country hospital has been transformed into what looks like a frantic scene from a television pilot – Black Ice Blues. Amid the chaos, I have absolutely no recollection of losing my exercise clothes for a hospital gown and so the anticipated embarrassment of being caught wearing no underwear is a non-event. See, mum, I told you that you worry too much.
And I still don’t really know what the injury is. I know I’ve broken something but what? The x-rays are withheld from me partly because the pain killers have left me so out of it that I couldn’t make a decision anyway and partly because I don’t want to see them. Eventually, I’m told that I’ve shattered my femur and that I’m to be transferred to another hospital for surgery the next morning. The sooner one repairs this kind of break, the better the result one can expect – expert that I am. (It’s six weeks before I eventually see the x-rays and understand what I really did to myself. I wish I’d never known.)
The 45-minute journey by ambulance to the next hospital ends with a bout of motion sickness performed for the amusement of the milling throng in the waiting room. It’s amazing how fast those little pink trays appear.
The next morning while I’m answering some e-mails, a delegation enters to tell me that surgery will be at 2:00 pm. I feel remarkably calm and I can’t understand why. All the things I’ve dreaded for so long – serious injury, major surgery, anesthesia, drugs, confinement, loss of independence – should conspire to render me a nervous wreck… but I’m not. I feel calm and lucid with a sense of acceptance that surprises me. Let’s just get this done.
An interesting conversation with the anesthesiologist completes my morning. He lays out some choices for me – general anesthesia or epidural. Actually, I’m the one who asks about the epidural. “We could do that,” he says, “but there’ll be a lot of sawing and drilling going on and you’ll be lying on a stainless steel table for three hours which isn’t that comfortable.” “Give me the general. I’ll live with the consequences.” As I’m wheeled into surgery, he puts a mask over my face and says, “Just some oxygen.” You can’t fool me! In my last act of independence, I take the mask off my face and say: “This isn’t oxygen.”
And that’s it – gone. Then, “Jane! Jane! Jane! Wake-up!” It’s over. I have 16” of titanium and four bolts holding my femur together. Actually, that isn’t all but I don’t know about that yet.
The surgeon reports an excellent result and that he expects full recovery. I suppose I should be enormously relieved to hear this, but honestly it didn’t occur to me that there wouldn’t be full recovery. Perhaps if it had, I wouldn’t have been so calm.
Since hospital routine is new to me, I’m quite impressed by the number of people who are in and out of my room wheeling in all kinds of contraptions. “Just getting some blood.” “Just getting blood pressure and temperature.” “Did you fill out the menu for meal service?” “Bed pan or commode?” “Give me the one where I don’t have to move.” “You have to move. The sooner you move, the faster you’ll heal.” At the moment moving seems like such a remote possibility that I just lie back and listen to the Code Blue announcements. Wait; here comes someone else, “Just checking your dressings.” On go another pair of Latex gloves – the eleventh pair this afternoon that have been removed from the dispenser on the wall opposite me. It’s unfathomable how many gloves a hospital must use every day. Do they get recycled? Do they biodegrade? I make a note to find out when I’m back in the real world.
And then in comes the first floral arrangement. Its beauty against the starkness of the hospital room quite overwhelms me. I lie staring at it marveling at the shapes, colors and delicacy of this fragrant visitor. I feel my spirits rising. I will get over this. And then Bob arrives with my supplements and grocery order. He stacks packages around the room – hemp milk, almonds, sprouted soy, raisins, cooked salmon, home-made soup, probiotics, colostrom, omega-3 capsules. So much stuff that the nurses wheel in another table for me. It isn’t long before my room looks like a cross between a florist and a health food store.
The beauty of the flowers, the touching messages, the sense of taking charge of my healing help me to face what I know has to come next. Everyone’s leaving to go to the conference and I’m not. My whole support team is going to be two thousand miles away hosting our national sales team, our international distributors and our world-wide educators. I can’t bring myself to think about it. One hurdle at a time. Let’s conquer the commode first.
Before Bob leaves for the night, he mentions something about videoing me into the conference. I dismiss the idea as ludicrous. No one’s going to see me like this.
I’m not alone that night. I have unexpected companions called Venus Boots. These white cuffs wrap around my lower legs and vibrate up and down them all night long. This electronic massage is designed to lessen the risk of blood clots. (Another wonderful gadget.) I don’t just feel massage though, I feel something else from the Venus Boots; I feel less alone. With every cupping and uncupping of my legs, I hear Venus saying, “It’s OK. I’ve got you.” When I tell the nurse the next morning that I’m so enchanted by my night visitors that I’ve dubbed them angel hands, she gives me one of those looks that says: Let me know if you’re still saying that a week from now.
So the journey begins. Tomorrow, I learn how to make my bed go up and down.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Black Ice
January 24, 2010
Dear Diary:
I’ve been lying in the driveway now for about twenty minutes. The soft mist is still falling and freezing as it touches the ground. Around me is darkness punctuated by a few lights. I can see the cars going by on Main Street just a block away. Life oblivious to my cries of: “No! No! This can’t be happening! Help! Someone please help! Bob! Bob!” I don’t expect any response – there’s no one around on Sunday evening at five o’clock with the football play-offs in full swing – but I can’t lie here doing nothing.
I was just going to do my workout but first I’d thrown on a ski jacket over my shorts and t-shirt to pop over to see my mother before she went to bed. I’d been in and out of that door all day but in classic New England capricious weather in one hour the ground had transformed from harmless mush to lethal black ice. For those of you who’ve never experienced it, it’s the element most feared in our neck of the woods – more so than six feet of snow or our occasional tornados. It's the invisible, uncaring enemy that spins unsuspecting cars off the road, turns familiar walk ways to booby traps and fills our hospital emergency rooms. It’s the thing we warn each other about and the thing that always ends up surprising us.
Tonight, I’m lying six feet from where my first foot touched the top of the mound. The speed with which it happened amazes me. So much so that I have the notion that it would be easy to turn back the clock just that nano-second and life would be the way I had it planned. Say goodnight to mum; do my work-out; warm up the lamb shanks from last night and have some down time with Bob over a glass of pinot noir. Tomorrow begins the count-down to one of the most important events of our year – our Global Sales Conference starting in Scottsdale a week from today. People are coming from all over the world. It’s been a year in the planning.
No! No! This can’t be happening!
Part of my brain is marveling at the experience. Yes, it took less than a second but there was another dimension, as well – the “time stood still” dimension – that moment when I left the ground and waited to return transcended time. Waiting, waiting for the eventual impact. When it happened it shot my spirit out of my body so that I was looking down on myself and moving farther and farther away until the physical part of me became a tiny, insignificant spot railing against the universe. I looked ridiculous in the immensity of it all.
Well, I can’t lie here forever. A girl could freeze to death. I’ve got to roll over and get to the back door somehow. Hold my breath – roll. Made it. Now start moving. How?
“Are you all right?” The wicked part of my brain wants to say, “Oh, I’m fine thanks. Just testing out this new yoga position.” The practical part of me says to Cody, my 15 year-old savior: “Would you run up those stairs and tell my husband I’ve broken my leg?” Seconds later, the door flies open, Bob flies down the walk-way and slides on the same ice. He careens towards me. I think it’s funny.
Cody, brilliantly, pulls a phone from his pocket and dials 911. Clearly, he wants to save us from ourselves as fast as possible.
The police are the first to arrive and stand guard waiting for the ambulance. Here it comes reversing down the driveway. I hope they know where I am!
I’m suddenly overcome with a sense of relief and gratitude that’s hard to contain. I think of Haiti and those people still waiting for attention from exhausted doctors. I can’t envision such courage, such suffering. I count the people who have surrounded me in minutes – seven – all trained and all with one thing in mind. But right now I don’t want anyone to touch me. I’m holding my leg together with my left hand that has transformed itself into a vice and refuses to let go. Please don’t move me, just leave me here; I’ll be all right tomorrow.
But they have this wonderful gadget that’s a stretcher in two parts. One part slides under my left side and the other under my right. The medics push gently and the two sides lock into each other. Whoever thought of that should be in the Gadget Hall of Fame. A gentle lift and I’m slid into the back of the ambulance. It’s then I remember that I have no underwear on under my shorts and t-shirt, but I did give myself a pedicure yesterday and that’s really all that matters.
It’s a short trip to the hospital but one that represents the beginning of a new chapter, the beginning of a new experience, the opportunity to find out more about myself. This is going to be interesting.
Dear Diary:
I’ve been lying in the driveway now for about twenty minutes. The soft mist is still falling and freezing as it touches the ground. Around me is darkness punctuated by a few lights. I can see the cars going by on Main Street just a block away. Life oblivious to my cries of: “No! No! This can’t be happening! Help! Someone please help! Bob! Bob!” I don’t expect any response – there’s no one around on Sunday evening at five o’clock with the football play-offs in full swing – but I can’t lie here doing nothing.
I was just going to do my workout but first I’d thrown on a ski jacket over my shorts and t-shirt to pop over to see my mother before she went to bed. I’d been in and out of that door all day but in classic New England capricious weather in one hour the ground had transformed from harmless mush to lethal black ice. For those of you who’ve never experienced it, it’s the element most feared in our neck of the woods – more so than six feet of snow or our occasional tornados. It's the invisible, uncaring enemy that spins unsuspecting cars off the road, turns familiar walk ways to booby traps and fills our hospital emergency rooms. It’s the thing we warn each other about and the thing that always ends up surprising us.
Tonight, I’m lying six feet from where my first foot touched the top of the mound. The speed with which it happened amazes me. So much so that I have the notion that it would be easy to turn back the clock just that nano-second and life would be the way I had it planned. Say goodnight to mum; do my work-out; warm up the lamb shanks from last night and have some down time with Bob over a glass of pinot noir. Tomorrow begins the count-down to one of the most important events of our year – our Global Sales Conference starting in Scottsdale a week from today. People are coming from all over the world. It’s been a year in the planning.
No! No! This can’t be happening!
Part of my brain is marveling at the experience. Yes, it took less than a second but there was another dimension, as well – the “time stood still” dimension – that moment when I left the ground and waited to return transcended time. Waiting, waiting for the eventual impact. When it happened it shot my spirit out of my body so that I was looking down on myself and moving farther and farther away until the physical part of me became a tiny, insignificant spot railing against the universe. I looked ridiculous in the immensity of it all.
Well, I can’t lie here forever. A girl could freeze to death. I’ve got to roll over and get to the back door somehow. Hold my breath – roll. Made it. Now start moving. How?
“Are you all right?” The wicked part of my brain wants to say, “Oh, I’m fine thanks. Just testing out this new yoga position.” The practical part of me says to Cody, my 15 year-old savior: “Would you run up those stairs and tell my husband I’ve broken my leg?” Seconds later, the door flies open, Bob flies down the walk-way and slides on the same ice. He careens towards me. I think it’s funny.
Cody, brilliantly, pulls a phone from his pocket and dials 911. Clearly, he wants to save us from ourselves as fast as possible.
The police are the first to arrive and stand guard waiting for the ambulance. Here it comes reversing down the driveway. I hope they know where I am!
I’m suddenly overcome with a sense of relief and gratitude that’s hard to contain. I think of Haiti and those people still waiting for attention from exhausted doctors. I can’t envision such courage, such suffering. I count the people who have surrounded me in minutes – seven – all trained and all with one thing in mind. But right now I don’t want anyone to touch me. I’m holding my leg together with my left hand that has transformed itself into a vice and refuses to let go. Please don’t move me, just leave me here; I’ll be all right tomorrow.
But they have this wonderful gadget that’s a stretcher in two parts. One part slides under my left side and the other under my right. The medics push gently and the two sides lock into each other. Whoever thought of that should be in the Gadget Hall of Fame. A gentle lift and I’m slid into the back of the ambulance. It’s then I remember that I have no underwear on under my shorts and t-shirt, but I did give myself a pedicure yesterday and that’s really all that matters.
It’s a short trip to the hospital but one that represents the beginning of a new chapter, the beginning of a new experience, the opportunity to find out more about myself. This is going to be interesting.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tradition!
The tradition of the evergreen tree can be traced back to the Ancient Egyptians. Centuries ago in Great Britain, Druids used evergreens at winter solstice to symbolize the return of life in the Spring. Bob and I have two traditions that without fail we adhere to on Christmas Eve.
Someone once said that the English love tradition and Americans love a parade. Bob gets his parade at Thanksgiving; now it’s my turn to enjoy some tradition. That’s why I’m insisting this year on verbalizing, “Merry Christmas” instead of “Happy Holidays.” Chanukah’s almost over, after all, and Christmas isn’t. Besides, I’m really OK about it if someone wishes me a Happy Chanukah in response – even delighted.
Sharing holidays with each other should become a new tradition.
I digress. The first tradition Bob and I observe on Christmas Eve is to join friends in a tiny church on a hill surrounded by woods. It only gets used once in winter and Christmas Eve is it. It couldn’t be more picture-post-card if it tried – complete with a potbellied stove to keep us warm and red candles in red apples at the windows.
Snow is usually falling outside.
The service consists of adults and children sharing something special from their lives, a favorite poem, an observation, anything really that contributes to the sense of community. There are some carols and then we all light candles, link hands and sing Silent Night.
You have to be dead not to be wiping away a tear.
The service is followed by a party at my friend Bobbie’s house – and yes, we sing carols around the piano. I suppose this is a chance to tell her that all the effort she makes with food, decorations and seasonal cheer is and has been appreciated by all her friends for many years. For me, she recaptured the magic of Christmas that I knew as a child and I will always treasure it.
Everyone leaves feeling closer and happier than when we went in which I think is the point.
Then Bob and I rush home and do some last-minute gift wrapping and tease ourselves by delaying the moment that we find the DVD and put it in the machine. Because this is what we’ve been looking forward to all year. We wouldn’t dream of spoiling things by being tempted to play this sacred DVD any other time.
We cuddle up, yes, even at our age we cuddle up – our dog is invited, of course – and we push the play button. We’ve done this every year since 2003 when Love Actually was first released. We laugh, cry, comment on the brilliant writing and ensemble acting and hope that it won’t end. It does, of course. It ends with the words “… because love, actually, is all around.”
So in an act of pure plagiarism, that’s what I wish for all of us this holiday season. I wish that we can all experience, in spite of what we read, see and even sometimes feel, that love, actually, is all around.
Monday, November 30, 2009
What's in a Word?
I love thinking about words. From Dan Brown’s latest great read, The Lost Symbol, I’ve just learned about how the word sincerely is thought to have come into the language. When marble workers during the Roman Republic wanted to cover an imperfection, they would fill it with wax and press marble dust into it. The mistake disappeared. This was considered dishonest.
In Latin, sine means without; cere means wax. So sincerely means without wax. Every time you sign a letter with Sincerely or Yours sincerely, you’re really saying “this letter is written honestly -- without wax.” Isn’t that wonderful?! I love stuff like that.
English is so alive and organic. It’s not easy to keep up with it all. Just think, ten years ago no one would have understood the verb to google. As recently as a year ago, no one would have understood the verb to tweet.
It’s especially not easy to keep up with the changes in English when one has to learn American as well. As a born and bred English person, I work hard at being bilingual. For example, in stead of saying turn right I now say take a right without even thinking of asking “take a right where and in what?” I’ve even mastered hang a left without being tempted to look for a clothes line.
But there are some words that I still can’t get my tongue around, for example, utilize. It’s three syllables after all. It’s a lot of work! I’m going to stick with its more efficient cousin use because otherwise the utilization of utilize takes way too much breath and sounds as if I’m trying to be something I’m not.
And how about the word robust? This fine word used to be savored about once a year to describe a hearty red wine at the holidays. Now it’s used, with the appropriate hand-speak, to describe anything from an idea to a budget. I like the word robust; it feels good in the mouth which may be why it’s become the word of the moment. But it’s on the way to losing its power from over utilization. I’ve had complaints from other words who are beginning to feel neglected.
However, not all is lost, because in the cosmetic world we have a language that doesn’t go in and out of fashion but remains the same whether you’re in New Zealand or Norway and anywhere in between. It’s called INCI (International Nomenclature of Cosmetic Ingredients). The majority of ingredient labels use INCI. This doesn’t mean you’ll be able to understand it because most of it will be in Latin -- that universal language with which we’re all so conversant.
The United States doesn’t require this international language, although almost every other country does. So, if you ship overseas, this has led to some interesting problems for us manufacturers not the least of which is the word water.
Yes, water. This two syllable word that heads many ingredient lists has been the subject of more meetings, more angst, more high-level discussion than any ingredient anywhere on earth. The Latin word for water is aqua. However, the FDA feels that not enough Americans know what aqua means so they want water to be called water, which would give us water/aqua on our labels.
Not so fast. To comply internationally, manufacturers must list the INCI word first which gives us aqua/water (with the FDA looking on with robust disapproval). Then the French weigh in and insist that if French translations are used on the package (an absolute requirement if you ship to Canada) that everything in English must be translated into French. This leaves us with Aqua/Water/Eau on our labels, that are already griping about all the information they have to carry.
And you thought being a cosmetic manufacture just meant deciding which new lipstick colors to bring out.
Well, that’s it for now. I’m going to grab a shower (round the waist), fix my hair (I’ve just found a fabulous new glue), and take in a movie (I’m tired of watching them. It’s more exciting to inhale them). After that, I’ll probably become a couch potato and catch a few zzzz’s (in my butterfly net) because I’ve been working 24/7!
In Latin, sine means without; cere means wax. So sincerely means without wax. Every time you sign a letter with Sincerely or Yours sincerely, you’re really saying “this letter is written honestly -- without wax.” Isn’t that wonderful?! I love stuff like that.
English is so alive and organic. It’s not easy to keep up with it all. Just think, ten years ago no one would have understood the verb to google. As recently as a year ago, no one would have understood the verb to tweet.
It’s especially not easy to keep up with the changes in English when one has to learn American as well. As a born and bred English person, I work hard at being bilingual. For example, in stead of saying turn right I now say take a right without even thinking of asking “take a right where and in what?” I’ve even mastered hang a left without being tempted to look for a clothes line.
But there are some words that I still can’t get my tongue around, for example, utilize. It’s three syllables after all. It’s a lot of work! I’m going to stick with its more efficient cousin use because otherwise the utilization of utilize takes way too much breath and sounds as if I’m trying to be something I’m not.
And how about the word robust? This fine word used to be savored about once a year to describe a hearty red wine at the holidays. Now it’s used, with the appropriate hand-speak, to describe anything from an idea to a budget. I like the word robust; it feels good in the mouth which may be why it’s become the word of the moment. But it’s on the way to losing its power from over utilization. I’ve had complaints from other words who are beginning to feel neglected.
However, not all is lost, because in the cosmetic world we have a language that doesn’t go in and out of fashion but remains the same whether you’re in New Zealand or Norway and anywhere in between. It’s called INCI (International Nomenclature of Cosmetic Ingredients). The majority of ingredient labels use INCI. This doesn’t mean you’ll be able to understand it because most of it will be in Latin -- that universal language with which we’re all so conversant.
The United States doesn’t require this international language, although almost every other country does. So, if you ship overseas, this has led to some interesting problems for us manufacturers not the least of which is the word water.
Yes, water. This two syllable word that heads many ingredient lists has been the subject of more meetings, more angst, more high-level discussion than any ingredient anywhere on earth. The Latin word for water is aqua. However, the FDA feels that not enough Americans know what aqua means so they want water to be called water, which would give us water/aqua on our labels.
Not so fast. To comply internationally, manufacturers must list the INCI word first which gives us aqua/water (with the FDA looking on with robust disapproval). Then the French weigh in and insist that if French translations are used on the package (an absolute requirement if you ship to Canada) that everything in English must be translated into French. This leaves us with Aqua/Water/Eau on our labels, that are already griping about all the information they have to carry.
And you thought being a cosmetic manufacture just meant deciding which new lipstick colors to bring out.
Well, that’s it for now. I’m going to grab a shower (round the waist), fix my hair (I’ve just found a fabulous new glue), and take in a movie (I’m tired of watching them. It’s more exciting to inhale them). After that, I’ll probably become a couch potato and catch a few zzzz’s (in my butterfly net) because I’ve been working 24/7!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Memory and Your Nose
Ceilidh, front center, with her focus groupMmmm! Just the whiff of Old Spice Aftershave and I’m back dancing on the top of a table to the Beatles’ She Loves Me and spotting a mysterious stranger soon to be my first love.
Or the smell of wet grass and I’m poking my head out of our family tent wondering if it’s dry enough to forage for mushrooms.
Or the smell of wet grass and I’m poking my head out of our family tent wondering if it’s dry enough to forage for mushrooms.
What is it about a smell that in a nano-second vividly recalls memories decades old and with all the attendant emotions? No other sense packs such a punch because it’s the only sense that goes directly to the brain. At the top of our nasal passages behind our nose is a patch of special neurons about the size of a postage stamp. These neurons are unique because they’re out in the open where they can come into contact with the air. Humans have about five million neurons. Dogs have more than 220 million.
My dog thinks that humans have a puny sense of smell. Her smell is a thousand times more sensitive than ours. Could you smell a stick of celery through the walls of a closed suitcase surrounded by dirty socks? And medical tests have recently shown that specially trained dogs can detect certain types of tumors in humans. Beat that!
In order for you to smell something, molecules from that thing have to make it to your nose. Everything you smell, therefore, is giving off molecules - whether it’s aftershave, celery or wet grass. Those molecules are generally light and float through the air into your nose. Inert substances such as minerals don’t give off molecules which is why they are “fragrance free.”
Humans can distinguish more than 10,000 different smells. My dog isn’t impressed. She can smell the urine of another of her brethren and tell you the sex and what it ate for breakfast. She does this quite often. “Hey, let’s go this way. He’s a nice looking stud and there’s a chance he didn’t eat all the sirloin they gave him for breakfast!”
Regardless of our limitations, smell is incredibly important to us. What’s the first thing you do when you’re assessing a new cosmetic? I bet you put it on your hand and smell it. If it doesn’t appeal, it doesn’t matter what miracles the cream could produce, you won’t use it; I know you.
So wait until you try our special holiday product,
. Four beautiful lip glosses with my favorite chocolate flavors - truffle, orange, strawberry and caramel. Yes, they really taste like chocolate and just as importantly…they smell like it. That’s because we’ve used organic food-grade flavors. From the moment you open the box all your senses are stimulated and when you put them on your lips, I promise you a truly sensual experience.As soon as I open the lid to
and release the smell, I’m opening the door to my first Belgian chocolatier and swooning from the aroma - real cocoa beans and butter fat, no compromises just pure decadence.Unfortunately, chocolate is poisonous for dogs so in spite of pulling out the big guns - tail waving rhythmically, the “see what a good girl I am sitting here in front of you and not moving an inch,” posture and moist eyes fixing mine, I’m hanging tough and keeping these delectable goodies for myself. Pass the chocolate orange, please.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Anyone Can Wear Red
Jane on the ocean floor
Sand Pipers in flightI think I’m in love with iron oxides.
I used to be in love with the man who introduced me to them, my geology professor at NYU. It was he who unlocked the mystery of tectonic plates for his devoted students and led us to marvel further at the wonders of this planet. I used to leave his class and dance up Fifth Avenue. He gave me an A on my first test and then I knew it was for real. I have a terrible memory for names but I never forgot the names he taught us – metamorphic, sedimentary, igneous, gneiss, conglomerate, obsidian, scoria.… And he informed us that anything red in the earth is the result of iron oxides.
This lapse into the dull was unlike him. What’s so fascinating about rusted iron liberally sprinkled with heavy metals? Give me underwater volcanoes any day.
But then I saw a dramatic demonstration of the beauty of this simple mineral when, years ago, I was on a rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. The river was green when we first began to run the rapids but as the week wore on the weather changed from dry to saturating. This created a certain amount of discomfort for a city girl who was trying not to whine about spending the night on beaches with nothing but a sleeping bag and ground sheet. Good that the ground sheet was transparent because I used to pull it over me and watch the lightening flash off the canyon walls while the rain beat on my face. (Why didn’t you sleep under a tree, you ask? That’s because scorpions drop from trees, and then there are other beasts that were using the beach first who also like to stay out of the rain. Ignore my warning at your peril.)
It rained for so long that waterfalls that didn’t exist before poured over the red canyon walls washing off the iron oxides into the river which turned from green to red in front of our eyes. When we reached the Little Colorado River, its aquamarine water joined the red Colorado in a kaleidoscope of colors that defy description. I was hooked.
I used to be in love with the man who introduced me to them, my geology professor at NYU. It was he who unlocked the mystery of tectonic plates for his devoted students and led us to marvel further at the wonders of this planet. I used to leave his class and dance up Fifth Avenue. He gave me an A on my first test and then I knew it was for real. I have a terrible memory for names but I never forgot the names he taught us – metamorphic, sedimentary, igneous, gneiss, conglomerate, obsidian, scoria.… And he informed us that anything red in the earth is the result of iron oxides.
This lapse into the dull was unlike him. What’s so fascinating about rusted iron liberally sprinkled with heavy metals? Give me underwater volcanoes any day.
But then I saw a dramatic demonstration of the beauty of this simple mineral when, years ago, I was on a rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. The river was green when we first began to run the rapids but as the week wore on the weather changed from dry to saturating. This created a certain amount of discomfort for a city girl who was trying not to whine about spending the night on beaches with nothing but a sleeping bag and ground sheet. Good that the ground sheet was transparent because I used to pull it over me and watch the lightening flash off the canyon walls while the rain beat on my face. (Why didn’t you sleep under a tree, you ask? That’s because scorpions drop from trees, and then there are other beasts that were using the beach first who also like to stay out of the rain. Ignore my warning at your peril.)
It rained for so long that waterfalls that didn’t exist before poured over the red canyon walls washing off the iron oxides into the river which turned from green to red in front of our eyes. When we reached the Little Colorado River, its aquamarine water joined the red Colorado in a kaleidoscope of colors that defy description. I was hooked.
Just recently I had a trip to the Bay of Fundy, that wondrous place in Nova Scotia that enjoys fifty-foot tides and is so full of iron oxides that even the massive cliffs are red. We stayed at a motel on the shore of the Minas Basin and watched as the tide came in and the tide went out. When it was in, it lapped at our feet; out, it disappeared over the horizon. What was left were miles of red mud – the ocean floor – with a rich mixture of small critters for the thousands of migrating sand pipers to fatten up on before their long trip south. (More on that later.) There is something primeval about walking on mud millions of years old as it squelches between your toes and slips and slides under your feet. And the iron oxides stain your toes and prolong your pedicure.
In the evening, we cooked up vegetables from the local farmers’ market, grilled some just-caught fish and ate at a picnic table watching the sun set. Why am I giving you this piece of off-topic information? Because the sunset intensified the color of the red mud so that it looked as though it were boiling. It looked like lava. Really, it did. Iron oxides have never looked so beautiful.
And the thousands of sand pipers used this beauty as a back-drop to their ancient dance that left us breathless. Do they have a choreographer? How is it that they can all turn at the same exact second going 35 miles an hour? One instant they’re a silver flying saucer; the next second they’re a black funnel, and the next they disappear altogether only to reappear as Japanese calligraphy. I’d be watching them still if I hadn’t had a plane to catch and they hadn’t left for South America.
I brought some red iron oxide back on my brand-new white tennis sneakers and was quite annoyed at how impossible it is to get off once it’s made its mark. (If only lip stains worked as well!) In spite of this minor character flaw, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m still in love with iron oxides. But what really breaks my heart is how much I love this glorious planet.
Note: To learn more about the ocean floor, the creatures that inhabit it and how a healthy ocean is crucial for all life on earth, visit http://www.teamorca.org/.
In the evening, we cooked up vegetables from the local farmers’ market, grilled some just-caught fish and ate at a picnic table watching the sun set. Why am I giving you this piece of off-topic information? Because the sunset intensified the color of the red mud so that it looked as though it were boiling. It looked like lava. Really, it did. Iron oxides have never looked so beautiful.
And the thousands of sand pipers used this beauty as a back-drop to their ancient dance that left us breathless. Do they have a choreographer? How is it that they can all turn at the same exact second going 35 miles an hour? One instant they’re a silver flying saucer; the next second they’re a black funnel, and the next they disappear altogether only to reappear as Japanese calligraphy. I’d be watching them still if I hadn’t had a plane to catch and they hadn’t left for South America.
I brought some red iron oxide back on my brand-new white tennis sneakers and was quite annoyed at how impossible it is to get off once it’s made its mark. (If only lip stains worked as well!) In spite of this minor character flaw, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m still in love with iron oxides. But what really breaks my heart is how much I love this glorious planet.
Note: To learn more about the ocean floor, the creatures that inhabit it and how a healthy ocean is crucial for all life on earth, visit http://www.teamorca.org/.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A Different Perspective
Jane on the left...hanging on!Last week our management team held a retreat so we could concentrate on thinking ahead for the next five years. On the final day we were told to bring warm clothes and soft-soled shoes. I thought we were going for a hike – you know, an orchestrated bonding experience. Instead, we were marched to a meadow where two hot air balloons were waiting for us.
I’ve never been in a hot air balloon.
It was a perfect evening to see our beautiful Berkshire Hills in all their late summer glory. At least, that’s what I repeated to myself as the balloons were inflated and my knees shook. Did I tell you I’m a nervous flier? I’ve been in all kinds of planes from two-seaters over the African jungle to jumbo jets around the world. I’ve even been in a glider. I’ve sat in 747 cockpits with jet pilots while they expressed their adoration for all those dials. I’ve taken the joystick of a two-seater in an effort by the pilot to have me “feel her soul.” I’ve read all the books and I understand why planes stay up there. As a friend of mine says, “Planes fly because of the laws of physics, not in spite of them.”
Nothing’s worked. I still experience at least one moment of abject terror every time I fly and that’s if there are no bumps. It comes down to this - I just don’t trust those engines and I don’t like knowing that I’m 30,000 feet in the air with no way out. (I always choose an aisle seat because looking down reminds me that we’re not on the ground.)
So, riding in a hot air balloon powered by a propane flame thrower, with a pilot dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and being told that it would be better if my partner and I didn’t travel in the same balloon together wasn’t my idea of must-have recreation no matter how glorious the early evening light was!
And then we had to sign those releases. You know, the ones that tell you that you can’t hold the pilot responsible if you impale on a church steeple or the balloon goes up in flames. I made light of it, of course, because everyone else was being so carefree and also because I knew they were watching me. Gaily, I jumped into the basket and fell into deep prayer wishing I’d taken a seasick pill.
It makes a lot of noise when they pump that blow torch to keep the air in the balloon warmer than the ambient temperature. “Heat rises, cold sinks” became my mantra as we floated gently away. When the blow torch wasn’t in operation and singeing the top of my head, things were blissfully quiet and serene. The hills revealed their secrets, unfathomable from the ground. We discovered grand houses tucked into hillsides; formal gardens; lakes and ponds. We floated over trees so close we picked leaves from their very top branches. We looked for bear and deer in usually impenetrable woodland.
Our beautiful Berkshires Hills – the roots of mountains that used to be higher than the Rockies – spread out all around us in a shimmering blue light. Yes, this was worth it. This was actually fun.
Oh, I forgot to tell you that balloons can be made to go up and down but not sideways, so when I asked the pilot, “Where are we going to land?” His answer was, “I haven’t got a clue.” He did reveal that he planned to fly over the upcoming ridge. A slightly frantic, I thought, pumping of the Bunsen burner gave us enough lift to float over the ridge with not much to spare. And we did bump into our sister balloon as they got caught up in an air current that drove them backwards and into us. We have handprints on our balloon to prove it.
It eventually occurred to me that perhaps we were running out of propane since we had switched to the second tank and there’d been quite a bit of flame pumping going on. Sure enough our pilot started to make noises about looking for a field. In case he missed them, we were happy to help and pointed to several large, green, soft spaces close at hand. Remember I said that a balloon can’t go sideways? This is when I fully appreciated the phrase, “So near and yet so far,” as we had to leave a number of tantalizingly close meadows behind.
I have no sense of direction so trying to figure out where we were was impossible and everything looks so different from a hot air balloon. However, I did know that we were dangerously close to heading for the State of New York and hundreds of acres of dense woodland. But those puckish air currents just wouldn’t cooperate. Then, suddenly we were headed for a lush alfalfa field – the last green space before we hit NY. We were instructed to bend our knees and hold on tight. No problem. We bounced a few times and were down, exhilarated, congratulating each other and talking about when we could do it again. Now here comes the good part.
This unpredictable, uncontrollable balloon had landed in a field next to the house where I started the company fifteen years ago! It’s true. (My neighbors came running out to welcome us.) I know this sounds ridiculous, but it’s almost as if the balloon had deliberately taken us back to the beginning to show us how far we’d come. Lots of hugs and tears.
Our fifteen years since we started the company have been a soaring balloon ride with risk, unpredictability, adventure and quite a bit of hot air thrown in. But more than anything else it has been a ride full of beauty and discovery and connection.
Who needs to go sideways when you can go up?
Monday, August 31, 2009
We Are What We Eat
We rescued our dog, Benjie, five years ago now. He was found on the streets of a nearby-town, so matted that he couldn’t defecate. He became completely devoted to my mother and her to him - he was soon living with her. Their mutual devotion manifested itself in many ways but particularly with food.
I’ve long been an advocate of the raw food diet for our dogs. I know it saved my beloved Labrador’s life. I thought I was feeding her the best pet food money could buy but when she was one year old she developed a terrible allergy that was so agonizing it even changed her personality. After many, many vet visits, I finally found wonderful Pat McKay*, who diagnosed Ceilidh (kay-lee) as having an out-of-control yeast infection fed by all the starch in her food. Under Pat’s guidance, we stopped the vicious cycle of steroids and antibiotics and built up Ceilidh’s immune system with supplements and raw food. Soon the constant scratching and itching stopped; her ears that looked like red cracked mud went back to their beautiful creamy softness; her hair re-grew (she was almost hairless) and most importantly the yeast let go of its grip on her internal system.
I learned that pet food is full of starch and processed food, completely alien to a dog’s natural diet, but the favorite of yeast and parasites. Nobody bakes cookies for dogs in the wild.
So our habit for the past 11 years is for her to lie beside me in the kitchen while I spend ten minutes in the morning putting together a mixture of raw meat mixed with organic vegetables and vitamins. What takes me ten minutes, takes her ten seconds to eat. This diet is more expensive than commercial dog food but, believe me, the vet bills have shrunk to nothing. Better yet, she’s almost 12 and still leads the pack of her Labrador buddies on the daily walk together. She’s a running, jumping anti-aging commercial.
Benjie (our little rescue) has been more of a problem. He has been so lavished with treats and nibbles to “make up for the terrible time he had on the streets, dear” – a regular rationalization from my mother - that he grew obese and lethargic. (He’s a terrier mix so lethargy is unusual, but he has this adorable way of sitting on his hind legs and lifting his front paws up and down as if he were saying, “please, please, please!” Even I, with my purist heart, find it difficult to resist him – but I do.) So, eventually we took him to the vet for a check-up to find that he has diabetes.
My initial reaction was, “Oh, no! How on earth are we going to manage this? Two insulin shots a day after meals 12 hours apart.” It’s still a major challenge but there’s no doubt that his energy is better and he’s a happier dog – always good to see. In order for me to give him the insulin, he has to eat a certain amount of raw food twice a day – no treats! This took an enormous concession on my mother’s part who is convinced that Benjie thinks that she doesn’t love him any more. That hasn’t been my problem. My problem has been getting him to eat my raw food. I have to hand-feed him to get anything passed his lips because he would much rather have a piece of toast – preferably with marmalade. I’ve come to realize that he’s addicted to starch. He literally had the shakes one night. This addiction means that I can spend up to 45 minutes a session getting enough food into him in order to give him the insulin. There have, of course, been many trips to the vet to monitor blood sugar levels. Now he has a urinary tract infection – common with diabetes, I’m told.
All this, of course, has led me to think in the larger terms of what diabetes means to humans and the strain on the country and the world of this epidemic. There’s nothing like having it in your own backyard to get a real sense of how complicated, dangerous and time-consuming this disease is. Apart from those truly unfortunate people who become diabetic at an early age (Type 1 diabetes), so much of diabetes is avoidable. Benjie didn’t have to be diabetic; it was the result of those around him not understanding the consequences of what seemed like small, harmless actions – expressions of love – like the mailperson who used to slip him a biscuit every day. From Benjie’s point of view, I suppose the moral to this story is that looking cute and getting what you want, isn’t always best for your health.
*http://www.patmckay.com/ Pat gives free consultations on any aspect of your companion’s health. She also offers homeopathy for animals.
I’ve long been an advocate of the raw food diet for our dogs. I know it saved my beloved Labrador’s life. I thought I was feeding her the best pet food money could buy but when she was one year old she developed a terrible allergy that was so agonizing it even changed her personality. After many, many vet visits, I finally found wonderful Pat McKay*, who diagnosed Ceilidh (kay-lee) as having an out-of-control yeast infection fed by all the starch in her food. Under Pat’s guidance, we stopped the vicious cycle of steroids and antibiotics and built up Ceilidh’s immune system with supplements and raw food. Soon the constant scratching and itching stopped; her ears that looked like red cracked mud went back to their beautiful creamy softness; her hair re-grew (she was almost hairless) and most importantly the yeast let go of its grip on her internal system.
I learned that pet food is full of starch and processed food, completely alien to a dog’s natural diet, but the favorite of yeast and parasites. Nobody bakes cookies for dogs in the wild.
So our habit for the past 11 years is for her to lie beside me in the kitchen while I spend ten minutes in the morning putting together a mixture of raw meat mixed with organic vegetables and vitamins. What takes me ten minutes, takes her ten seconds to eat. This diet is more expensive than commercial dog food but, believe me, the vet bills have shrunk to nothing. Better yet, she’s almost 12 and still leads the pack of her Labrador buddies on the daily walk together. She’s a running, jumping anti-aging commercial.
Benjie (our little rescue) has been more of a problem. He has been so lavished with treats and nibbles to “make up for the terrible time he had on the streets, dear” – a regular rationalization from my mother - that he grew obese and lethargic. (He’s a terrier mix so lethargy is unusual, but he has this adorable way of sitting on his hind legs and lifting his front paws up and down as if he were saying, “please, please, please!” Even I, with my purist heart, find it difficult to resist him – but I do.) So, eventually we took him to the vet for a check-up to find that he has diabetes.
My initial reaction was, “Oh, no! How on earth are we going to manage this? Two insulin shots a day after meals 12 hours apart.” It’s still a major challenge but there’s no doubt that his energy is better and he’s a happier dog – always good to see. In order for me to give him the insulin, he has to eat a certain amount of raw food twice a day – no treats! This took an enormous concession on my mother’s part who is convinced that Benjie thinks that she doesn’t love him any more. That hasn’t been my problem. My problem has been getting him to eat my raw food. I have to hand-feed him to get anything passed his lips because he would much rather have a piece of toast – preferably with marmalade. I’ve come to realize that he’s addicted to starch. He literally had the shakes one night. This addiction means that I can spend up to 45 minutes a session getting enough food into him in order to give him the insulin. There have, of course, been many trips to the vet to monitor blood sugar levels. Now he has a urinary tract infection – common with diabetes, I’m told.
All this, of course, has led me to think in the larger terms of what diabetes means to humans and the strain on the country and the world of this epidemic. There’s nothing like having it in your own backyard to get a real sense of how complicated, dangerous and time-consuming this disease is. Apart from those truly unfortunate people who become diabetic at an early age (Type 1 diabetes), so much of diabetes is avoidable. Benjie didn’t have to be diabetic; it was the result of those around him not understanding the consequences of what seemed like small, harmless actions – expressions of love – like the mailperson who used to slip him a biscuit every day. From Benjie’s point of view, I suppose the moral to this story is that looking cute and getting what you want, isn’t always best for your health.
*http://www.patmckay.com/ Pat gives free consultations on any aspect of your companion’s health. She also offers homeopathy for animals.
Monday, July 20, 2009
My First Wrinkle
I vividly remember my first wrinkle. I was in Austria getting ready to go out to dinner after a day of filming Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger. I was kind of excited about some time away from the grind of a film set and really looking forward to getting to know our Austrian producer/Olympic athlete who was taking me to a local restaurant.
I was putting on some mascara when I noticed what I thought was a smudge under my eye. I casually flicked it away – it didn’t move. I flicked again and again and peered closer. Why was it being so stubborn? It took a few seconds and then the shocking realization: I had a wrinkle and it wasn’t going anywhere but deeper.
It somewhat took the edge off the evening because now, of course, I was an old woman and invisible to men. (I’ve grown up a bit since then.)
The worst part of the appearance of this creature was that there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing except anticipate the appearance of more of the same. Today, I would have run for a cosmeceutical – that wonderful hybrid of cosmetic and drug – that would have promised an increase in collagen and elastin production and vanished my wrinkle. But, cosmeceuticals didn’t exist then.
Aren’t we fortunate to live in an age when science has made it possible to have skincare products that are actually effective? What isn’t so fortunate are the restrictions on what manufacturers can say about them. Even though the products work, they aren’t allowed to say so for fear of upsetting the FDA by making drug claims. To understand what the FDA defines as a cosmetic, this is taken from its Web site.
The Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act (FD&C Act) defines cosmetics by their intended use, as "articles intended to be rubbed, poured, sprinkled, or sprayed on, introduced into, or otherwise applied to the human body...for cleansing, beautifying, promoting attractiveness, or altering the appearance"
In other words, it can look pretty but can’t claim to effect physiological change.
This is the FDA definition of a drug:
The FD&C Act defines drugs, in part, by their intended use, as "articles intended for use in the diagnosis, cure, mitigation, treatment, or prevention of disease" and "articles (other than food) intended to affect the structure or any function of the body of man or other animals"
In other words, if you claim that the product creates physiological change then it’s a drug. So if you say, “our product prevents wrinkles,” you are making a drug claim. If you say, “our product prevents the appearance of wrinkles,” you are making a cosmetic claim. A cosmetic manufacturer does not want to be marketing a drug, even though some of us have to endure the strictures if we produce sunscreens. So we try to say what the product does without really saying it. This is why we hedge our statements with words such as “appears,” “seems” “illusion” and “looks” and leave the consumer to try to figure it out.
I hope there will come a day when companies who have done their research, gone through their testing phases and documented the results are allowed to let the consumer know what the product can really do. Anything else is not only a disservice to the consumer but also to the well-intentioned scientists, chemists and formulators who are trying to give us what we want.
I was putting on some mascara when I noticed what I thought was a smudge under my eye. I casually flicked it away – it didn’t move. I flicked again and again and peered closer. Why was it being so stubborn? It took a few seconds and then the shocking realization: I had a wrinkle and it wasn’t going anywhere but deeper.
It somewhat took the edge off the evening because now, of course, I was an old woman and invisible to men. (I’ve grown up a bit since then.)
The worst part of the appearance of this creature was that there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing except anticipate the appearance of more of the same. Today, I would have run for a cosmeceutical – that wonderful hybrid of cosmetic and drug – that would have promised an increase in collagen and elastin production and vanished my wrinkle. But, cosmeceuticals didn’t exist then.
Aren’t we fortunate to live in an age when science has made it possible to have skincare products that are actually effective? What isn’t so fortunate are the restrictions on what manufacturers can say about them. Even though the products work, they aren’t allowed to say so for fear of upsetting the FDA by making drug claims. To understand what the FDA defines as a cosmetic, this is taken from its Web site.
The Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act (FD&C Act) defines cosmetics by their intended use, as "articles intended to be rubbed, poured, sprinkled, or sprayed on, introduced into, or otherwise applied to the human body...for cleansing, beautifying, promoting attractiveness, or altering the appearance"
In other words, it can look pretty but can’t claim to effect physiological change.
This is the FDA definition of a drug:
The FD&C Act defines drugs, in part, by their intended use, as "articles intended for use in the diagnosis, cure, mitigation, treatment, or prevention of disease" and "articles (other than food) intended to affect the structure or any function of the body of man or other animals"
In other words, if you claim that the product creates physiological change then it’s a drug. So if you say, “our product prevents wrinkles,” you are making a drug claim. If you say, “our product prevents the appearance of wrinkles,” you are making a cosmetic claim. A cosmetic manufacturer does not want to be marketing a drug, even though some of us have to endure the strictures if we produce sunscreens. So we try to say what the product does without really saying it. This is why we hedge our statements with words such as “appears,” “seems” “illusion” and “looks” and leave the consumer to try to figure it out.
I hope there will come a day when companies who have done their research, gone through their testing phases and documented the results are allowed to let the consumer know what the product can really do. Anything else is not only a disservice to the consumer but also to the well-intentioned scientists, chemists and formulators who are trying to give us what we want.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
