Ozone Therapy

I’m Ed Ruane, thirty-something. A Londoner born and bred, I live two doors down from my Grandmother, a wonderful woman who brought me up from a young age.

I often pop into Gran’s to check she’s okay. Lately I’ve been popping in more often. It’s the worry, you see. She’s been changing … becoming forgetful, distracted, withdrawn.

As I open her front door and walk into the lounge, I see her lying, fast asleep, on the armchair. A bottle of pills and a glass of water are perched on the nearby coffee table. My eyes swivel towards the back of the room, from where a strange, hissing noise seems to be emanating. It comes as no surprise to see that she’s left the iron on - again.

After hurrying over to unplug the iron, I go back over to the coffee table and pick up the bottle of pills. Donepezil tablets. The pills that Dr Beveridge prescribed when I took Gran to the surgery a couple of weeks ago.

The doc had told us that day that Gran had Alzheimer’s; that’s why she’d been so forgetful and distant. I didn’t believe it at first - my Gran, Alzheimer’s? Impossible! She was strong, determined and dependable. Okay, she was becoming a little clumsy…absent-minded even.

Then I began to think about the strange things she’d been saying lately: forgetting names, forgetting what day of the week it was or what she’d been doing several moments earlier. She even gave me a puzzled look over lunch one afternoon and asked me who I was. But the strangest - and most upsetting - thing she kept saying was: “Why doesn’t Carole come and visit me any more? She never even phones.”

Carole is her daughter - my Mother. And she’s been dead the last twenty years. That’s why Gran ended up bringing us up, after our parents were killed in a car crash back in ’83.

At first, I tried to explain to Gran that her daughter wouldn’t - couldn’t call. But she started to get hysterical when I told her about the car crash, and the next day she’d have forgotten all about it and start asking about Carole calling her all over again. In the end, rather than keep upsetting Gran, I stopped telling her that my Mother was dead, and just started making excuses instead.

“Ed, I didn’t realise you were coming round.” I hear Gran’s voice as her eyes flicker open. She props herself up in the armchair. “Is your Mother here as well?” she adds hopefully.

“No, Mother’s busy today … working…” I lie blatantly. This is the kind of excuse I find myself making everyday, when Gran starts asking about when my Mother is coming over. I can’t risk upsetting her every day by having to go through the car accident from scratch. And what’s the point? She’ll have forgotten it all by tomorrow and it will start all over again.

“Oh.” Gran looks disappointed. “Well, maybe she’ll ring me later.”

Later that evening, I sit at my computer, still thinking about my Gran and what she’s going through. The pills seem to be doing nothing for her. I’ve been so worried that I’ve been discussing it all with a good friend at work, Lisa.

When I first told Lisa about it, she told me that her Uncle had been diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s some months earlier. He’d tried the conventional medication with little success. Apparently, a friend of a friend had told Lisa about something called O-Zone Therapy, and Lisa had taken her Uncle along for some treatment. She told me that there had been a noticeable improvement, and this gave me hope.

Now, as I sit at the computer, I decide to do some research into the subject; a faint glimmer of hope lingers at the back of my mind. But, as I begin to read about O-Zone, my hope begins to turn to scepticism. The treatment seems to be the centre of some controversial issues: condoned by some people and warned against by others. It has not yet been approved as a medical treatment by our health service, although the article states that it has been used in Germany and other European countries for many years, and to treat a number of serious ailments. By the end of my research, I’m thoroughly confused about the whole issue of O-Zone Therapy and whether there are any real benefits to it.

I toss and turn all night, wondering whether I should take the risk and book Gran in for a session of the therapy. By the time morning comes, I’ve made up my mind.

I go to Gran’s and tell her we have to go out. She slips on a coat, not even bothering to ask where we’re going. She almost walks out with her slippers still on, but I notice just in time and fetch her shoes for her.

On the way to the clinic, she doesn’t say a great deal. She does, of course, ask the daily question about when my Mother might be coming round to see her. I tell her one of my usual lies, praying for the day when I can stop pretending and tell her that her daughter is dead.

We pull up outside the green door of the clinic on Church Street. We go into the building, and check in with the receptionist. Several minutes later, a young woman comes out to reception. Smiling at us, she beckons us over and takes us through to a small office. She introduces herself as Angie, a Naturopath at the clinic.

Angie spends some time explaining O-Zone Therapy to me. “O-Zone is basically O3, a gas which breaks down into oxygen in the blood and helps to provide oxygen to cells. Most problems and illnesses are caused by cells that have been starved of oxygen. O-Zone will help to replenish the oxygen supply to these cells and alleviate the problems.”

She goes on to explain how the therapy is administered. “There a re a number of ways you can take O-Zone. I think the best way for your Gran is aural insufflation - through the ears.” Angie looks over at Gran, but she is staring around the small office with a bemused expression.

“We’ll do one treatment today, and then one a day for the next three days,” says Angie, turning back to me. She then takes Gran into another room, leaving me alone in the office.

As I sit alone, I begin to wonder what I’m doing there at all. What was the likelihood of this treatment working? Especially at £30.00 a pop. Could a treatment that was so inexpensive have any benefits at all?

After a while, Gran is ushered back into the office. She doesn’t look unduly perturbed. Despite my still strong reservations, we make a follow-up appointment. Nothing changes when we get home. She is still absent-minded, forgetful, distant. And she’s still asking the same questions about my Mom.

I take Gran to the clinic again the next day, and the day after that. On the day of her final treatment, I pop round a little earlier to make her some breakfast. As I walk into the lounge, I can see Gran standing there, clutching a framed photo of my Mother.

Pre-empting her next question, I put a hand on Gran’s shoulder and gently say: “I’m sure Mom will come and visit soon, when she’s not so busy at work.”