Listen to this story: If you’re in the car, or cooking, or just lazy… you can listen to me read this story for you, in the audio file below.
I’ll spare you the details, but my stomach has bothered me a lot this year. I’ve tried many things to feel better, undergone tests, examinations, and through it all have had to alter my diet, for diagnostic or therapeutic reasons, multiple times.
So I found myself back in an examination room this week, ready for the long haul of a strange test for bacterial overgrowth, where you briefly breathe into a bag every twenty minutes. It goes on for hours and I was advised to bring distractions. I went with a book, a magazine and a newspaper. Reading in a doctor’s office is not something I would recommend, ordinarily. It’s well lit, sure, but not exactly cozy.
Prior to the breath test I was required to spend a day eating only white meat, rice, boiled eggs and white bread. My nine-year-old gazed upon my lily white plate at dinner and asked what was up. I explained, and then, thinking back to an eating disorder documentary I once watched on an airplane, remarked that some people actually like starchy, white-only diets.
“Pretty racist,” he said.
“Well, not exactly…” I laughed. It’s a type of cruelty though, I’ll give him that.
I’ve never had to think so much about what I eat as I have this year. In the past I’ve tended to worry more about what I’m not eating - enough fruit, a wide variety of vegetables, non-meat proteins and any other thing that anyone can tell you is healthy - rather than what I am eating.
I’m not a big eater, nor a fast food lover and I stick to the relatively healthy things I like. Most of the time. It turns out that when those get taken away from me, I’m at a bit of a loss.
When our social-justice-aware, shock comic son was born into the family nine years ago, he had a hard time keeping his milk down. In those foggy, early weeks of parenthood, I was sent to the supermarket with a list from the pediatrician of all the things my wife should not eat, to try to help change the chemical structure of her breast milk. It was ridiculous. Do you have any idea how many things soy is in? Or how impossible it is to butter a piece of toast without dairy, soy or coconut products? Not that she was eating much toast. Gluten was on the list, too, of course.
At the time I was struck mostly by the incredible inconvenience these alterations could so easily cause, as well as how little I knew about dietary sensitivities and supermarket foods. But this year I've gotten to know the utter sadness of being forced to restrict your diet, too. The sense of loss that comes from going without your dietary staples. Your favorites. Like lost companions.
Previously I might have told you that although I’m picky about food, I’m not overly concerned by it either. I can go without eating for long periods some days, and be perfectly happy. But what I took for granted was access to the things that I do like, when I like to eat them. The little sparks of joy one can feel, not just eating their favorite foods, but looking forward to them, too. I’ve never really given much credence to the idea of “comfort foods” per se. I’m not one to knock off a pint of ice cream on the couch alone. But food is a comfort. It surrounds us.
In that way it turns out I do think about food. Not in a plan-all-the-week’s-dinners-on-a-Sunday-night way, but just day-to-day, or by the hour. The right food at the right moment often represents a bright spot in an otherwise dull day. Wandering through the supermarket, subconsciously knowing where to find everyone in the family’s favorites, or stopping at my beloved donut shops are foundational habits, it turns out.
This year I’ve had to give up donuts for long stretches, or succumb to the indignity of chasing down a chic bakery where they sell gluten-free, five dollar ones. I’ve had to drink coffee with no milk, that’s zero fun. A nice piece of toast to go with it has disappeared at times, too. Replacements are hard found. Even salads, something I’d say I enjoy more than ninety percent of men my age and persuasion, have been verboten at one time or another. It has left me rudderless and, on occasion, shedding weight that wasn’t there to lose.
Children are attached to food in a manner that I’m used to, but I assumed I’d grown out of. Our six-year-old daughter is a sweet tooth and I wouldn’t rule out acts of violence if I came down too hard on her occasional candy consumption. Or questioned the sheer number of cranberries she considers part of your average serving of oatmeal. She’s healthy overall, and those little bursts of sugar are a part of who she is. They suit her personality.
Now that doctors have stepped in and acted as a “parent” to my diet this year, I can better relate to her pain when I say “No”. I’ve learned more about how food shapes my personality, too. In the period when celiac disease was considered a possible culprit of my ills, expecting test results felt like I was the defendant in a death sentence trial, waiting for the jury to return. At one point I told my wife that I think I’d rather go on with the stomach discomfort if the cure was no more donuts. No beer! What’s the point of life? I wailed to no one.
So far though, it hasn’t come to that. I keep doing what the doctors tell me - eastern and western both - and will see what this latest test reveals. If nothing else, I got some reading done, and the meal afterwards (a good old BLT sandwich) was magnificent.
I have a greater problem - all the foods I love are bad for me and none of them make me feel bad and I feel no guilt. So I keep on chugging along eating things I know I shouldn't.