You can’t say that I didn’t try… just about everything. But, as I’m slowly realizing, it takes more than conviction to find relief. After several appointments with no improvement, I went to my acupuncture appointment determined to end the treatment if nothing changed. I reinforced my conviction by calculating how much time and money I had spent and how little I had gotten in return. Turns out I didn’t need the conviction as my acupuncturist quit me instead. Neither the herbs she prescribed nor her needles had been able to decrease my pain or increase my energy. She didn’t want to keep taking my money when she couldn’t give me anything in return except bi-weekly dashed hope. It’s hard to say who was more frustrated at that moment. She said I was the first person that she hadn’t been able to help, but she wasn’t the first person that had been unable to give me any answers. I appreciated her honesty and ethics, after all, most people, at least the ones I’ve been in contact with, wouldn’t send a paying patient away like that.
As she sent me back out the door I realized I had nowhere else to go. The long list of things to try has been checked off with no success: honey and cinnamon, lemon water, coconut water, coconut milk, meditation, acupuncture, herbs, supplements, exercise and a diet full of fruits, veg and nuts, sans gluten of course, and even prescribed medications and one surgery did nothing for me.
Of course I could do more with sleep, a constant recommendation by every practitioner, book, website and magazine, but who couldn’t? When I do get the chance to sleep in I wake with the sun and going to bed too early results in me staring at the ceiling.
The other consistently voiced statement is to wait for my body to heal. But for how long? When I was first diagnosed I was told a year, then after more test results it became two years. Now I’m reading that it can take up to five years. Five years! The Dragon Tattoo movies will all be on Blu-ray by then, or whatever replaces Blu-ray.
So I go back to my list and the only thing I haven’t crossed off is the ultimate recommendation: decrease stress. I’ve read the horrible effects stress can have. Besides slowing healing, it can cause even more health issues and, as Cosmo points out in almost every issue, it ages you faster than any free radical can. But how am I supposed to decrease the stress in my life when a harmless cookie, delicious pasta or a stray bread crumb from my niece’s toast is like poison to me? It’s the vigilance of double checking my vitamins, lipstick, plates and utensils that has saved me from getting even sicker.
So how do you balance the meticulous attention to detail you must pay everything in your life with letting go and breathing easy? Exercise and meditation, if they are helping at all, aren’t really making a substantial dent that I can see, although I’ll keep doing it, relishing that time to myself while still being exhausted. Until I find another book or doctor that can suggest something else the only thing I have to go on now is waiting and de-stressing. (Although, the very idea of waiting stresses me out.) Still, what else can I try? So tonight I’ll forget the laundry and the dishes and just chill on the couch watching Project Runway. Although, now that the show is a half hour longer, that will keep me up later than I should be if I want to get more sleep…
De-stressing is rather stressful.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Free to Move Within the Lines
Everyone knows that procrastination is not a good thing. Most of us learned that early on when we put off homework to go outside and play, only to be up late at night, quite cranky, as a math problem or history essay refused to be resolved. “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today” was a quote on several teachers' cork boards. The concept being that you have no idea what tomorrow could bring; therefore, you should be as prepared as you can be for it. Get that project done before the deadline so the night before you can accept the date from your current crush, pay those bills before they’re due so there’s no chance of interest or delinquency, and empty the litter box in case your mother-in-law comes by for a surprise visit.
Of course the other side can argue that you might get hit by a bus tomorrow and won’t you feel stupid for wasting your last day on earth doing laundry? What if your crush is at the bar right now, how will he even get to ask you out if you’re at home finishing a project that isn’t due for another two weeks? Take the chance, live a little, and enjoy right now because, once again, you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe you’ll have the winning lottery ticket and you can quit your job and not have to worry about that stressful project after all.
Until recently, I’ve never had a problem with which side of the argument I was on with the day to day managing of my life, but recently I’m not sure which side I’m on, least wise which is best.
With writing, I’ve always thought that it was the spontaneity and the adrenaline that got the creative juices flowing and I thought a self-imposed deadline or a goal of a chapter a week might weaken the result. I’ve never been short on inspiration and I’ve never fallen so far behind that I’ve lost the spirit of what I was working on; therefore, forcing myself to sit and write, write anything, seemed that I was just putting words on a page to create quantity and nothing more. Of course, the quality of a piece will usually come within editing and the first draft is only the raw material with which to work with. You can’t begin to sculpt your work as you’d want until all the material is on the page. Plus, I’ve noticed that a deadline, plan or goal can help the creative spirit to focus and not wander off with a sudden need to hear that one song that will be perfect for the scene on the soundtrack of the movie based on your novel that you haven’t finished writing yet. And while staring out the window can open your mind to ideas it does not create actual words on the page. And words, as every writer knows, is what you need most. Without the words, images, mood and story can’t be understood outside your own mind. After all, writing is nothing less than the map of your dream.
With Celiac Disease though, I thought the only way to handle my restrictions were to have a planned out lifestyle. The strict guidelines of my life now are there for my benefit and, literally, my health. Every meal for the day and perhaps the next is known. Every trip out of the house, whether to work or a vacation across the country, revolves around where I will eat lunch or dinner. Everywhere I go I carry a gluten-free snack with my keys and phone. I’m tethered, restricted and confined. Even within my own home, there is an OCD-like necessity to clean, contain and not cross-contaminate. The spontaneity and the creativity of the everyday are gone. But does it have to be that way?
Just as writing can be structured into a plan, can’t living gluten free be, well, more free? As more restaurants add gluten-free menus (Thank you Melting Pot!), more coffee shops and convenience stores carry gluten free snacks (Hello Lucy's cookies and Two Moms in the Raw granola) and more companies label their products with easy to decipher packaging (I love you Trader Joe's), the restrictive lines do not fade but they do get further apart. There's more room now to maneuver. As Celiac Awareness spreads life could get a bit less planned and bit more lived. Of course it will never be completely without restrictions, but perhaps things are brought into better focus that way.
Of course the other side can argue that you might get hit by a bus tomorrow and won’t you feel stupid for wasting your last day on earth doing laundry? What if your crush is at the bar right now, how will he even get to ask you out if you’re at home finishing a project that isn’t due for another two weeks? Take the chance, live a little, and enjoy right now because, once again, you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe you’ll have the winning lottery ticket and you can quit your job and not have to worry about that stressful project after all.
Until recently, I’ve never had a problem with which side of the argument I was on with the day to day managing of my life, but recently I’m not sure which side I’m on, least wise which is best.
With writing, I’ve always thought that it was the spontaneity and the adrenaline that got the creative juices flowing and I thought a self-imposed deadline or a goal of a chapter a week might weaken the result. I’ve never been short on inspiration and I’ve never fallen so far behind that I’ve lost the spirit of what I was working on; therefore, forcing myself to sit and write, write anything, seemed that I was just putting words on a page to create quantity and nothing more. Of course, the quality of a piece will usually come within editing and the first draft is only the raw material with which to work with. You can’t begin to sculpt your work as you’d want until all the material is on the page. Plus, I’ve noticed that a deadline, plan or goal can help the creative spirit to focus and not wander off with a sudden need to hear that one song that will be perfect for the scene on the soundtrack of the movie based on your novel that you haven’t finished writing yet. And while staring out the window can open your mind to ideas it does not create actual words on the page. And words, as every writer knows, is what you need most. Without the words, images, mood and story can’t be understood outside your own mind. After all, writing is nothing less than the map of your dream.
With Celiac Disease though, I thought the only way to handle my restrictions were to have a planned out lifestyle. The strict guidelines of my life now are there for my benefit and, literally, my health. Every meal for the day and perhaps the next is known. Every trip out of the house, whether to work or a vacation across the country, revolves around where I will eat lunch or dinner. Everywhere I go I carry a gluten-free snack with my keys and phone. I’m tethered, restricted and confined. Even within my own home, there is an OCD-like necessity to clean, contain and not cross-contaminate. The spontaneity and the creativity of the everyday are gone. But does it have to be that way?
Just as writing can be structured into a plan, can’t living gluten free be, well, more free? As more restaurants add gluten-free menus (Thank you Melting Pot!), more coffee shops and convenience stores carry gluten free snacks (Hello Lucy's cookies and Two Moms in the Raw granola) and more companies label their products with easy to decipher packaging (I love you Trader Joe's), the restrictive lines do not fade but they do get further apart. There's more room now to maneuver. As Celiac Awareness spreads life could get a bit less planned and bit more lived. Of course it will never be completely without restrictions, but perhaps things are brought into better focus that way.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Kitchen Anger
Many women have a tumultuous relationship with food. It starts the moment you’re made aware of your weight, when it stops being a sign of how fast you’re growing up and starts to be a warning of how fast you’re growing out. While I didn’t become a vegetarian to be healthy, it was a positive side-effect so long as I didn't overindulge on the pasta and cakes that were blessedly meat free. Unfortunately, I had to remove them from my diet as well once I had found out I had Celiac Disease. Still, even with an elimination diet that leaves me with only the good stuff (and most chocolate - thank goodness), I can’t say that my relationship with food is any better than the next girl's. In fact, it may be worse.
I never had that mother-daughter or grandmother-granddaughter or aunt-niece moment where I learned to express my feelings in the form of a beautiful meal. I love you was never said through a soufflé. My family did not come to this country to open a restaurant nor were there family recipes that taught me where my family came from. There was a German baker we went to a lot but I doubt that counts.
Instead, I taught myself to cook in a college dorm room with nothing but a microfridge. That meant mainly instant meals and leftover take-out, but I was creative in the blending. Once I had a real kitchen with blenders, mixers and an oven I thought cooking would come naturally and in some ways it did. But the joy did not.
I do not like watching cooking shows, I’d much rather watch Project Runway and I can barely sew a button back on, leastwise create a piece of clothing out of trash bags. I do not like cook books, I’d much rather read young adult novels and I haven't been 14 in a long time (but not THAT long, thank you very much). And I do not find a new blender, even if it is baby blue, an exciting toy. I find it heavy to move and time consuming to clean.
I appreciate healthy, tasty food very much. I just don’t like to make it. I have what my husband likes to call kitchen anger. When I do cook it’s like PMS 1000: do not talk to me, do not get in my way and do not offer to help. At first I thought it was an insecurity thing, I didn’t grow up cooking or really watching anyone else cook, but the few meals I have cooked, and my husband says that he can count them with one hand, have been rather good. By the time I’m done cleaning potatoes, cutting mushrooms and stirring the sauce though, I’m sick of looking at the food. I’m never less hungry than after I cook. It doesn’t matter how good it looks or smells. I’ve spent too much time with it and would rather pour myself some gluten-free Chex and be done with it.
I read the blogs and twitters of dozens of gluten-free people who turn to their creativity in the kitchen to deal with their strict, limited diet. They have found joy in making their own meals; joy that I’m immensely jealous of. Try as I hard as I do, I actually hate the kitchen even more now. Not just the anger it induces but the disappointment. I’m the type of person who could knock out a term paper or company letter in an hour and be proud of my use of a poetic phrase the same way someone can whip up a stew and savor the delicate hints of herbs. But just like someone who hates to write can wind up in tears over a deadline for a document or an all essay exam, I wind up weeping over mashed potatoes.
So I’m left to wonder, is it possible to live gluten-free happily and healthily without having to be a fabulous cook? Or even a mediocre one? Or how about one that doesn't find the whole process more frustrating than being hungry?
I'm worried that the only way to take charge of this disease is to be more than an angel in the kitchen but a downright miracle worker. If that is the case then I worry I may never have a handle on this thing.
I did read though that if you smile even when you are not happy the act of smiling will improve your mood. Maybe I should try that in the kitchen and it will defeat my animosity toward KitchenAid and Cuisinart.
I never had that mother-daughter or grandmother-granddaughter or aunt-niece moment where I learned to express my feelings in the form of a beautiful meal. I love you was never said through a soufflé. My family did not come to this country to open a restaurant nor were there family recipes that taught me where my family came from. There was a German baker we went to a lot but I doubt that counts.
Instead, I taught myself to cook in a college dorm room with nothing but a microfridge. That meant mainly instant meals and leftover take-out, but I was creative in the blending. Once I had a real kitchen with blenders, mixers and an oven I thought cooking would come naturally and in some ways it did. But the joy did not.
I do not like watching cooking shows, I’d much rather watch Project Runway and I can barely sew a button back on, leastwise create a piece of clothing out of trash bags. I do not like cook books, I’d much rather read young adult novels and I haven't been 14 in a long time (but not THAT long, thank you very much). And I do not find a new blender, even if it is baby blue, an exciting toy. I find it heavy to move and time consuming to clean.
I appreciate healthy, tasty food very much. I just don’t like to make it. I have what my husband likes to call kitchen anger. When I do cook it’s like PMS 1000: do not talk to me, do not get in my way and do not offer to help. At first I thought it was an insecurity thing, I didn’t grow up cooking or really watching anyone else cook, but the few meals I have cooked, and my husband says that he can count them with one hand, have been rather good. By the time I’m done cleaning potatoes, cutting mushrooms and stirring the sauce though, I’m sick of looking at the food. I’m never less hungry than after I cook. It doesn’t matter how good it looks or smells. I’ve spent too much time with it and would rather pour myself some gluten-free Chex and be done with it.
I read the blogs and twitters of dozens of gluten-free people who turn to their creativity in the kitchen to deal with their strict, limited diet. They have found joy in making their own meals; joy that I’m immensely jealous of. Try as I hard as I do, I actually hate the kitchen even more now. Not just the anger it induces but the disappointment. I’m the type of person who could knock out a term paper or company letter in an hour and be proud of my use of a poetic phrase the same way someone can whip up a stew and savor the delicate hints of herbs. But just like someone who hates to write can wind up in tears over a deadline for a document or an all essay exam, I wind up weeping over mashed potatoes.
So I’m left to wonder, is it possible to live gluten-free happily and healthily without having to be a fabulous cook? Or even a mediocre one? Or how about one that doesn't find the whole process more frustrating than being hungry?
I'm worried that the only way to take charge of this disease is to be more than an angel in the kitchen but a downright miracle worker. If that is the case then I worry I may never have a handle on this thing.
I did read though that if you smile even when you are not happy the act of smiling will improve your mood. Maybe I should try that in the kitchen and it will defeat my animosity toward KitchenAid and Cuisinart.
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