Douglas Schorr

From Write-Off to Comeback Kid at 76!

At 70, doctors had slapped a “Best Before Passed” date on me. I signed to donate my body to science.

Now, I’m the one leaving them gasping on jungle walks, 50-year-old gym rats ask, “How?” Certain (ahem) perks of life roared back 😉 Mentally? Like Johnny Nash crooned, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.”

All because I ditched rabbit nibbles for a lion’s feast.

Since September 1, 2022, my “medicine cabinet” cum “nuclear power plant source” has been:

– Red meat (eat till your brain yells, “Enough!”)

– Fat (ask for the scraps they usually discard)

– Pork, game, duck/chicken, the odd fish

– Eggs by the dozen

– Real butter, cream and cheese

– A dollop of yogurt

– Salt and salted water, and I still have a morning coffee.

No veggies, fruit, oils, carbs, no trendy drinks. Insane? I thought so too, but why had a lifetime of expert advice left me mentally and physically drowning?

Sure, I had an ugly backstory: booze and cigarettes ruled until 50. But then came decades of “healthy” living. Exercise, soul-searching, and seriously following the Standard American Diet (SAD), yet my body and mind took a beating. Far from fixing childhood issues—except when medically suppressed—acute acne, sinusitis, and susceptibility to colds left scars that festered into adulthood. Looking back, my nutritional ignorance, reliance on conventional wisdom, and susceptibility to expert marketing by food and pharmaceutical companies held me prisoner. With my naivety, as my savings shrank, my health became a personal horror show and an adventure for medicine.

Picture sitting before the top lung specialist, and, after years of poking and prodding, he drops the bomb: “Medicine can do no more for you.”

The thought of life in a wheelchair, tethered to an oxygen tank in Kuala Lumpur traffic, devastated me—but it also became the most powerful motivation I’ve ever had. Sometimes you need to smell death to step up and say, “Nonsense! I’ll find a way.”

My wife and I discovered Robert Lustig and went almost sugar-free. And I doubled down on the “healthy” SAD. My report card: “Poor but stable.” WTF. No more Mr. Naive Guy.

I tore into an Australian sirloin—fat and all. Something clicked. In the bedroom. From Week 1 on the Lion Diet, I began sleeping like a dream. From Week 6, the wins began stacking up. Within 18 months:

– Blood pressure meds gone after 33 years 

– Lung pump now just a dusty prop 

– Stomach bleeds—history 

– Hiatus hernia/acid reflux forgotten 

– Joint and bone pain a rare whisper—mostly with old injuries

Skin cancer scares, acne, rashes, even a tooth abscess faded away. Concerned doctors phoned, “When do we see you again?” but when I chirped, “Oh man, I discovered I’d been poisoning myself with…” they suddenly had an emergency in the waiting room.

I’m an animal. With every bite of the experts’ greens, fruits, and grains, my gut screamed, “POISON INCOMING!” My system’s built for vulture or lion food. It didn’t care if I ate “authoritatively healthy” or if I cut back—it still saw that stuff as a threat. Cutting it all out was the game-changer. Perhaps when I’m running like the Rolls Royce I was born to be, I can again abuse it, sending it to another tipping point.

For five weeks, my body soaked up meat, fat, and eggs like a starved sponge—no waste, pure fuel. I did not poo once. Then I was running downhill. With every stride, fog lifted, anxiety melted, depression’s cage blew open. Skin glowed, confidence spiked, and I woke up ravenous for life.

Your Turn? Goodness, yes, what have you to lose?

Start slow: ditch sugar traps—fruit included—and cooking oils (coconut is okay, use it up, then go animal fat). Swap a spoonful of carbs or veg for fatty meat or eggs each meal. Take six weeks. Then give it another six. Watch your body rewrite the script. It’s not a sprint—it’s a slow roast to reclaiming yourself.

The Romans knew: when the stakes were high, skip the figs and wine for the legions’ meaty rations. For me, it was meat over misery. No army required.