Health is a funny thing. We take it for granted, and with youth comes a certain sense of immortality, that nothing can lay us low for long. And yet, it takes so little to derail that cute little engine of self-delusion, and suddenly here I am, staring at my kitchen and wondering how I'll reconcile my mediocre baking skills with the necessity of building a better bread loaf. You know, one that won't kill me.
Okay, that's a little dramatic, and frankly, I don't even know what my issues are. I've been having some kind of (assumed) GI attacks over the course of this year, and two unsatisfying ER visits later, I'm left with a bottle of Maalox and a diet sheet. Now, I've had a couple of concerned friends already encourage me in a gluten-free direction (as well as organic and other assorted dietarily-expensive modes), and I've been.... less than thorough in eliminating gluten in everything I eat. Some days, I pretty much didn't even bother to try. But this seems to be the true wake up call to drop my dumbassery and just DO it.
Do you know gluten exists in damn near everything that tastes good?
For the moment, I'm on a yogurt-and-steamed vegetable diet. No, not together, that's gross. And fruit. And tea. But then, I'm still in pain from the last attack, and no true end in sight. I sort of think I injured my internals somehow, and there is some inflammation or other strain that just simply has to heal from whatever damage was caused this week. Typically, I would have an attack, then be fine for a week or two before the next. This week, I've had 3, and basically only a half-day pain-free.
As an aside, morphine ain't that great.
Now, I look forward to one ER bill I will have to pay for out of pocket in its entirety, and a second that I'm prepared to apply for retroactive financial aid to pay on my behalf. It is yet another scary step into this whole thing they like to call "being an adult" and let me just say... it sucks. And this pain in my upper abdomen... that sucks too, because it simply won't go away.
The largest part of me hopes that overhauling the food I put in my mouth will cure my issues, because I don't want to spend any more hours in the kind of pain these attacks bring with them. But I'll admit there is a very small part of me that is crying for another series of attacks in a couple of weeks or so, so I can go see that GI specialist and make them tell me exactly what is wrong with me... so they can cure it. Frankly, this is an extremely childish and unlikely desire. Medicine is no exact science, despite popular belief to the contrary. And it is always an expensive one, for the more they poke and prod to dig in deeper and find the actual causes of things, the more they want you (or your insurance company, if you're lucky) to fork over for the privilege.
And at the moment, I look around my messy house, my disordered kitchen, and my very clearly unhealthy self, and I can't help the gloom of depression that sinks over me. I'm very tired, hurting, and very, very frightened. I know that I can't sit in this feeling for long, but at the moment, I just can't shake it. Perhaps tomorrow I'll feel even a little better, and I'll be able to wash some dishes, do some laundry. Or maybe I'll end up sleeping the majority of the day again. Pain is a great de-motivator, and it is impressive how tired it makes me.
Tomorrow, I will try to find the positive things. I wanted to eat healthier, maybe lose some weight, get a little more organized... this is simply a drastic way to spark the improvements.
