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I PR E-OWNED BOOK
§ i
onutntion
THE AMAZING HEALTH
BENEFITS OF NUTRITIONAL
SUPPLEMENTS
2ND EDITION
improve the quality and quantity of life. Laser accurate and scientifically docu-
mented, it will help you win the war against degenerative disease and premature
aging."
"At last, someone has written a book that explains, based on the medical litera-
ture, why we need to provide all the nutrients in supplementation to the cell in
balance and at optimal levels. Everyone should read this book in order to begin
taking control of their own health."
This book is superbly written, and once I started reading it I could not put it
which will be uselful for enlightening both physicians and patients alike on the
health benefits of nutritional supplements.
Thank you for your book, which I think is very well written and informative.
I especially liked your comments regarding the label of "alternative medicine" as
there is certainly nothing alternative about sound, rational, nutritional advice and
trition
THE AMAZING HEALTH BENEFITS OF
NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENTS
Jo fi(^jza*t&
2ND EDITION
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or
Every effort has been made to make this book as accurate as possible. The purpose of this book is to
educate. It is a review of scientific evidence that is presented for information purposes. No individual
should use the information in this book for self-diagnosis, treatment, or justification in accepting or
declining any medical therapy for any health problems or diseases. Any application of the advice herein
is at the reader's own discretion and risk. Therefore, any individual with a specific health problem or who
is taking medications must first seek advice from their personal physician or health care provider before
starting a nutrition program. The author and Comprehensive Wellness Publishing shall have neither
liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to loss, damage, or injury caused or
ISBN 0-9664075-7-1
LCCN 98-71598
Editing, design, typesetting and printing services provided by Sound Concepts, 500 South Geneva Road,
Vineyard, Utah 84958 (Phone SOI 225-9520). Cover Design and Art Direction b> John M Adams.
ATTENTION MEDICAL FACILITIES, CORPORATIONS. UNIVERSITIES. COLLEGES, AND
PROl BSSIONAL ORGANIZATIONS: Quantity discounts are available on hulk purchases ol this book
foi educational purposes. Special hooks or hook excerpts can also be created to tit specific needs For
fable of Contents
Section
Chapter 1 Degenerative Disease and Oxidative Stress 7
Chapter 2: The War Within 11
Chapter 3: Oxidized LDL Cholesterol
Section
Chapter 12 : Bionutrition versus Recommended
Daily Allowances 99
Chapter \Ak Nutritional Supplements 105
Chapter If : Mineral Supplementation 117
Chapter \t >: Safety of Nutritional Supplements 123
Chapter 11 ': Physician's Bias Against
o
z
a
TO
—
z
ife
Acknowledgments
I want to give a special thank you to Dr. Myron Wentz. His unwavering
dedication in the fight against degenerative disease has truly been an inspiration.
I also appreciate the boldness with which Dr. Kenneth Cooper is speaking out to
the medical community in recommending that everyone needs to be taking
nutritional supplements.
This book is a reality primarily because of my wife, Elizabeth. She has been a
gift from the Lord. Her constant encouragement and loving support is what
really kept my focus. With my busy private practice and strong commitment to
my family, it was the late night hours that allowed me the time to complete the
needed to finish what I had started. She has been a loving wife and a beautiful
mother to my children: Donny, Nick, and Sarah. I am truly blessed.
The more I learn of how intricate our bodies are, the more I appreciate our
divine design. This is not an accident. Our own bodies are our best defense
against disease, especially when they are properly nourished. I must acknowl-
edge His working in my life and His guidance in the writing of this book. We are
The Author
ntroduction
Nothing curls physicians' toes more than when patients come into their office
and ask if they should be taking nutritional supplements. I had all of the
patented answers - they're snake oil; they just make expensive urine; one can get
all the required nutrients by eating the right foods. If my patients persisted, I told
them nutritional supplements probably wouldn't hurt them but they should take
the cheapest they could find.
Maybe you have heard some of these same comments from your physician.
For the first 23 years of my clinical practice, I simply did not believe in nutri-
tional supplements. During the past five years, however, I have reconsidered my
position based on recent studies published in the medical
literature. r*^^*
Should you be taking nutritional supplements? This
5 °° ok ls
book is dedicated to open-minded skeptics who are .
who
.
this
of time. Vitamins
. minded
^ vy////
skeptics
objectively at
^ %o ^
are an emotional issue within the medical field. One medical evidence.
hopes logic will prevail and readers will begin to
understand what is likely the next major breakthrough in medicine - nutritional
science.
trained to treat disease. We know our drugs. In medical school, we study pharma-
cology and learn how each of these drugs is absorbed, and when and how they
are excreted from the body. We know the chemical pathways they disrupt to
create a therapeutic effect. We learn their side-effect profile. We balance the
therapeutic benefit of these drugs against their potential danger.
selling its wares. This is the reality of medicine... This is the economics of
medicine.
According to Peter Langsjoen, MD, a biochemist and cardiologist from Tyler,
Texas:
techniques. Disease is viewed as something that can be attacked selectively with antibiotics,
chemotherapy, or surgery - assuming no harm to the host. Even chronic illnesses, such as
diabetes and hypertension, yield simple numbers, which can be furiously assaulted with
medications. Amidst the miracles and drama of the twentieth century we may have forgotten
the importance of host support, as if time borrowed with medications and surgery were
The greatest defense against disease is our own body. Common sense tells us
we need a strong and healthy immune system to protect our health. Nutritional
supplements are needed to support the host (our bodies) in this battle against
chronic disease. This is not in opposition to traditional medicine and all of our
pharmaceutical and surgical advances. This is not alternative medicine. The main
theme of this book is that supplements work along with pharmaceuticals and
surgery to create significantly better results in clinical medicine.
to take an open-minded look at these studies and be advocates for their patients.
I have been in the trenches of a private family practice for more than 26 years.
INTRODUCTION
Physicians must be skeptical and protect their patients against any scheme or
product that could be harmful to their health. Double-blind, placebo-controlled,
clinical trials (the standard in clinical medicine) are needed to assess what truly
benefits our patients and what does not. This is the type of evidence I present in
this book.
In this age of biochemical research, where we are now able to determine what
is happening in every part of each cell, the very essence of degenerative diseases
is now coming to light. Oxygen necessary to sustain life on this planet also has a
"dark side"- oxidative stress. One must understand how this affects the body and
how to protect against it. This book is the culmination of three years of research
1980s, I recommended that my patients eat a low-fat, high-fiber diet with at least
five to seven servings of fruits and vegetables each day. The medical literature
at least delay, chronic degenerative diseases (heart attack, stroke, and cancer) and
to enable the body to do what God intended. Physicians across the country are
now beginning to discover this truth. I sincerely hope this book benefits your
health and your life.
k
SECTION
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'Very good.'
'Merci, monsieur, we shall not fail you, and now good evening—bon
soir.'
'Bon soir.'
The manner of Captain Gabion, who had been eyeing him with some
contempt, twirling his moustache the while, changed completely now, and,
bowing with studious politeness, he withdrew to report progress to Bevil
Goring.
CHAPTER XXII.
'Well, I have faced much in my short time, and figured in many things;
but I never thought to do so in such an old-fashioned affair as a duel!' he
said, with a grim smile, to his new friend Gabion.
And he wondered what Tony Dalton, Jerry Wilmot, and others of the
battalion now far away beyond the equator, would think of the event, when
tidings would reach them that he had been shot by Lord Cadbury, or had
shot the latter—and in a duel!
Yet we may be sure that there are few men, if they told truth, but would
acknowledge that they felt a very unpleasant emotion when thinking that
when another round of the clock was achieved their part in this world might
be over—ended and done with!
A revelation was all he wanted. On his own life, save in so far as Alison
Cheyne was concerned, he set little store. How short seemed the minutes he
used to spend with her under the old beeches at Chilcote, or when in Laura
Dalton's at the Grange. Short and few, and how much alone he used to feel
when not with her!
Now how much more alone he felt, when he seemed to have so
mysteriously and painfully lost her!
Every feature of the scenery, every detail of what he saw, however petty
and trivial, impressed itself curiously upon the mind of Bevil Goring on this
eventful morning.
A group of old peasant women, with wide dark-blue or black cloaks and
coal-scuttle bonnets, gossiping in the roadway; children at cottage doors;
Flemish labourers, with hard and earnest types of face, leisurely filling their
huge pipes with tobacco; a boy sitting on a gate, munching a straw, and
dreaming perhaps of the future; the view of the vast Scheldt, curving in a
mighty sweep round the flat green Tête de Flandres, with all its steamers
and other shipping.
The mighty cathedral spire, and all the thousands of high-peaked roofs
and masses of the quaint city, thrown forward in dark outline against the
lurid and vapoury red of the winter morning sky, all seen like a vast
panorama from the green heights of the citadel. Goring recalled the first
morning he had seen the latter from the deck of the Rotterdam, and had
looked at its great gaping embrasures and lunettes, well flanked out, with
the leisurely interest it cannot fail to have in a soldier's eye.
He was now perhaps looking upon Nature, with all her beauties, for the
last time, and the coming spring and summer might be as nought to him,
even after the wealth that had come upon him so unexpectedly; but if he
was fated to fall by Cadbury's pistol his chief regret was not for these
things, but the fear that, unless those in another world are cognisant of what
passes in this, he would never know the fate of Alison Cheyne, or penetrate
the veil that hid her whereabouts in mystery now!
He listened somewhat as one in a dream to Victor Gabion, who was
drawing his attention, with no small pride and enthusiasm, to the features of
the mighty model citadel, which is now so deserted in aspect, and the streets
in the immediate vicinity of which consist chiefly of the ruins of the
arsenals and magazines, that were destroyed in the great siege of 1832,
when only 4,500 Dutchmen, under old General Chassé, defended
themselves with such desperation against 55,000 Frenchmen, under
Marshal Gerard.
Bevil Goring was much mortified to think that in that matter he had
been anticipated by Lord Cadbury, when some dark figures appeared
hurrying towards them along the terre pleine of the ramparts; but it was not
so, for those who approached proved to be brother-officers of Gabion's,
who, having been informed by him of the affair, had come forth, as one
said, to see 'le sport.'
All touched their caps, and, after a few passing remarks, looked round
for the appearance of Cadbury and his second, but no one, save themselves,
seemed to be in the misty space, or amid the wet grassy works of the
citadel, and no voiture from the town was as yet seen approaching the
entrance to it. All these Belgian officers, to Goring's eye, seemed very
square-shouldered, as they wore blue cloaks over their gold epaulettes. All
were chatting and laughing merrily, while smoking as if their lives
depended upon it.
Time passed on. The cathedral clock struck half-past eight, and
eventually nine; but there was no appearance of Cadbury.
'Can he have fallen ill?' was the last of many surmises as to this most
unexpected turn in the matter.
'Not likely; he would surely have had the courtesy to send a message,
and not keep us loitering here,' said Captain Gabion.
Bevil Goring felt keen shame that any Englishman should act as
Cadbury had done, and at last they all left the citadel and drove back to the
city.
At the very time that Goring and his companions were cooling their
heels on the Lunette St. Laurent, the Firefly was steering close-hauled
against a head wind, mid-way between the city and Flushing, with Lord
Cadbury on board! Since coming there he had imbibed in his wrath and
tribulation of spirit so many of Pemmican's brandies and sodas that Tom
Llanyard was puzzled what to think, and his temper was horrible.
Goring and his new friend Gabion, by making inquiries, were not long
in discovering that he had sailed in his yacht. Could Alison, under any
circumstances, be on board that yacht too?
Bevil Goring could go near Sir Ranald no more, but, as he loitered near
the hotel, could he have looked in upon him just then he would have
forgiven him, and more than forgiven him all, his passion and fury.
'A letter for you, Sir Cheyne,' the concierge had said.
He strove to rise from his chair, but fell faintly into the arms of the
startled concierge.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Save in so far as it concerns the adventures and fate of our friends Tony
Dalton and Jerry Wilmot, we do not intend to write the story of how we
fought there and marched to Coomassie, or what was the cause of the war,
as there are never wanting old soldiers to tell the true tale of the fields in
which they have fought.
Sir Richard Steele, that pleasing old essayist, in one of his fugitive
papers gives us an amusing account of an ordinary in Holborn, where a
veteran captain, furnished with a wooden leg, was never weary of telling
long stories about the battle of Naseby, in which he had borne a part; and it
is always the result of every battle or campaign of note to have survivors of
it, who become perhaps after-dinner bores.
'The Army is full of men with stories in their lives,' said Dalton to Jerry
one day, when talking of this very subject; 'but I think, by Jove, that mine is
an exceptionally strange one.'
Jerry, on the other hand, was thinking it strange that he should have
proposed to his friend's wife; but that fancy was all a thing of the past now,
and—when his genuine love for Bella Chevenix was considered—seemed a
phantasy, an absurdity, out of which the brilliant Laura had herself laughed
him, and he had ceased to think of her before he ever thought hopefully of
winning Bella; but surely love in these days of ours is not what it was a
hundred years ago, when, as the author of 'Guy Livingston' has it, 'our very
school-girls smile at the love-conceits which beguiled their grand-dames,
even as they may have smiled at the philandering of Arcadia.'
New Year's Day, 1874, was to witness the landing of Sir Garnet
Wolseley's expedition—army it could not be called—on the Gold Coast,
consisting in all of about fifteen hundred men, exclusive of officers. The
Black Watch—clad in grey for the first time since the regiment first
mustered on the Birks of Aberfeldy, a hundred and forty years before—
reckoned only nine hundred bayonets, nominally, with the 23rd Welsh
Fusiliers and the Rifles, formed the infantry. The pipers alone wore the kilt.
Long before daybreak, the Rifles came ashore. The seamen of the ships
of war and transports were supplied with lanterns, in case the landing
should occur in the dark; but a brilliant moon, shining in a clear, blue,
cloudless sky, rendered their use unnecessary, and the dark grey column,
with its black accoutrements and tropical helmets, was soon massed on the
beach, and began its march alone under Colonel Arthur Warren—a veteran
of Alma and the Eastern campaign—and long ere the sun of the tropical
noon was high overhead, had marched seven miles on its route to the front;
the rest of the troops, with the Naval Brigade, came on within five or six
days, and the advance was continued towards the Prah. The troops did not
—as the people at home curiously expected—proceed towards that now
famous river by railway, as the materials which were brought out for its
construction were not laid down, so 'that wondrous jungle, with its foot-
track, some twenty or thirty inches wide, between close walls of luxuriant
greenery, swarming with strange and lovely birds, hateful reptiles, and
monstrous insects, was not as yet to be disturbed by the locomotives
steaming and screaming across the land.'
But anon, near Accrofal, the march lay through groves of cotton-trees
some two hundred and fifty feet high, like the giant vegetation of another
world—trees with stems like the Duke of York's column, as Sir Garnet
Wolseley afterwards said—shutting out the sun from the wilderness of bush
below; and, as trees of other kinds were already shedding leaves, the men
often marched more than ankle deep through fallen foliage.
The first halt on New Year's night was at a place called Barraco, of
which a party of the Naval Brigade were the first to possess themselves, and
there they were as hearty and happy as British sailors could be, as the whole
campaign in the bush seemed to them but a spree ashore. But they were
chiefly in their glory at night, when an enormous camp fire was kindled by
them—a fire upon which the absolute and entire trunks of trees were
heaped—throwing its flames skyward and its red light far into the recesses
and dingles of the untrodden forest.
So on New Year's night, in that strange and isolated spot, were gathered
the general and his staff, the sailors and their officers, and all made merry—
the blue-jackets stepping forth in succession to sing their best, and often
raciest, forecastle songs.
On the next day's march, the second of January, the advanced guard
raised a cheer.
'No,' replied an officer, 'but the Prah is—that famous river which they
believe no white man will ever be able to cross.'
Swift and muddy-coloured, here it was rolling with great force between
banks that were almost perpendicular—it was seventy yards wide and nine
feet deep. The foliage on the banks was singularly beautiful, and there the
stupendous cotton-trees were towering high in the air above a rich
undergrowth of palms and plantains.
It was here that letters came from Koffee, the barbarous Ashantee king,
expressive of a desire for peace, but not on such terms as the general could
grant after having come so far; thus the advance on Coomassie, the capital,
was still resolved on. The only written language of the people is Arabic, and
the only persons who can write it are Moors; but their verbal language is the
softest and most liquid on the Gold Coast, abounding in vowels and nearly
destitute of aspirates.
The black and nearly nude ambassadors remained in camp for a brief
time, and one of them, on seeing the practice of the Gatling gun, which sent
streams of bullets in every direction to which its muzzle was turned, told his
colleagues that 'it was vain to fight against foes so terribly armed.'
It was evident that there would soon be fighting now. 'Sir Garnet's
demands were that the king must release all European prisoners' (of whom
he had several), 'pay £200,000 for the cost of the war, and sign in presence
of our forces a treaty securing firmly the British Protectorate from future
aggression. Private warnings, however, and the information gained by Lord
Gifford and Major Russel in their scouting advance beyond the Prah, caused
Sir Garnet to distrust completely all the king's overtures for peace.'
On the night after the dusky ambassadors had departed, Tony Dalton
had command of an out-piquet in the direction of the enemy, and as the
sunset passed away he had, as in duty bound, examined carefully all the
ground in his vicinity.
The pipers of the Black Watch, playing tattoo in the hutted camp, had
made the mighty woods of the Prah re-echo to the notes of the 'Pibroch of
Donuil Dhu,' its last notes had died away in the leafy dingles, and as silence
stole over the plain Dalton gave way to thought.
The war in which he was engaged had been stigmatised as one against
savages, but they were savages who were far from being feeble foes; and if
(as a print of the time said) 'by honour and glory is meant the creditable
performance of duty at the call of the State, then is that just as applicable to
soldiers and sailors who fight savages as to those engaged in the more
showy scenes of European war. Her Majesty's troops do not pick and
choose either the enemies they have to encounter, or the regions wherein
their valour and fortitude are to be displayed; and it is unjust to shower
laurels on one set of men, while another, equally employed in defending our
empire, are deprived of due recognition.'
The night wind was whispering among rushes and reeds of wondrous
growth, or stirring the foliage of the cotton-trees, between which could be
seen the stars—constellations unknown in our northern hemisphere; and he
could hear the ripple of the Prah as it poured between its banks on its way
to St. Sebastian, the chirp of enormous insects, the twitter of brilliantly
plumaged birds, scared by the red gleams of the watch-fire. Round the latter
were the men of the picket, in their grey Ashanti uniforms and tropical
helmets, in groups, sitting or lying beside their piled rifles, the barrels of
which reflected the sheen of the flames.
The two tresses of hair he had got in such hot haste at Southampton
were many a time drawn forth from the breast-pocket of his Ashanti patrol-
jacket, to be tenderly unfolded, kissed, and replaced, for as yet no locket
had been procured in which to enshrine them, and such an ornament was
not likely to be procured among the reed-built wigwams of Coomassie.
Not far from him lay Jerry Wilmot, indulging in thoughts of his own—
wondering on what terms were now Bella Chevenix and haughty Lady Julia
Wilmot, his cold and heartless mother, who had seen him depart from his
father's house to face peril, disease, toil, and, it might be, death, so
callously!
Suddenly the sound of musketry close by, ringing out sharply upon the
air of the silent night, made the whole picket start to their feet.
'Stand to!' cried Dalton, drawing his sword. 'Unpile!' was the next order,
and the picket faced its line of sentries.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
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