April 2, 2011
When Food is NOT Your Friend (a bit of my back story and ‘How I got here’)
Well, here I am…decades after my first foray into the not-so-fun world of food allergies. It’s funny how something I’ve been battling since I was barely potty-trained would still be consuming so much of my life. I should be used to it, I suppose, but – alas – here I am, journaling on this very uncool subject at 9 p.m. on a random Thursday night.
To say I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired is an understatement. Since grade school (well, actually before that, according to my parents), I’ve had migraines and stomach cramps so bad they could drop a horse. I spent so much time on the throne that my buns would fall asleep. The cot in the school nurse’s office had my name on it; I spent so much time there, in fact, that when the nurse called my mom (or grandma) to come get me, she had the numbers memorized (God bless you, Mrs. Merrill!). My headaches were so horrific, I’d hide under beds to avoid light and noise. I even passed out from the pain (or maybe it was from the hyperventilated crying – whatever the case, it was a relief to escape the agony, even if only for a few minutes). Mom kept ‘the pan’ on deck in case nausea struck. Excedrin that made my hands shake and Pepto in its hot pink glory were always within reach, along with the cobalt blue jar of Vick’s vapor rub that my dear and desperate mother slathered on my forehead before layering on an ice-cold compress. All because I ate a food (sometimes, just a bite or two), my body would, without fail, wage an all-out war against itself.
A trip to Mickey D’s is fun for most kids, for sure, but it was anything but a Happy Meal for me. Don’t get me wrong. I loved the taste of a cheeseburger and fries as much as anyone, but I loathed being locked in a bathroom stall just minutes after eating those little golden potato sticks. And I really despised sitting in the backseat of our old Ford, gripping my stomach and bawling my eyes out while, still an hour away from home, my dad drove frantically down dark country roads in search of a public toilet. Mayor McCheese held me hostage. Hamburglar stole my smile. And Grimace? Well, that pretty much described me.
Fast food wasn’t the only thing that slowed me down. Pizza? Puh-leez! Nuts? Nope. Grains? Get real. Dairy? Don’t think so. Sugar? Uh-uh. I was six years old when doctors finally linked my chronic health problems to food allergies. While my parents were infinitely relieved a more insidious disease wasn’t to blame for my three-times-a-week migraines, accompanying barfing and chronic digestive problems, I doubt they were prepared for the mile-long list of off-limits foods, not to mention, hearing from doctors how my allergies were “the worst they’d ever seen.” My poor mother. Cooking was a nightmare, not just because I could eat almost nothing, and the fact that she had to create different menus for me and my sisters, but also because the foods that made me the least sick were also the ones that would curdle almost any normal kid’s stomach. I was thrust into a world of weirdo meals: a dozen lima beans with an all-natural, unseasoned beef patty, for example — on a plate with no bun (couldn’t eat wheat), no ketchup (tomatoes were a no-no) and no mustard (gave me heartburn so bad it could catch the house on fire). A side of iceberg, well, that was about the extent of it. Kid parties were not parade, either. When I’d reach for a cream-slathered cupcake like the other kids, or even a seemingly harmless hot dog, a mother would run over at Steve McQueen speed to steer me to a bowl of green grapes. Joy.
But with a stringent rotation diet and weekly shots, I did improve. Baby fat fell off. My big, floppy hats and Elton John-esque sunglasses that helped stave off migraines weren’t needed nearly as frequently. I spent less time in the john and more time on the playground. I started to feel like a normal kid and, amazingly, by the time I hit High School, I all but kicked those food allergies to the curb. Sure, I’d get some killer headache and stabbing stomach pains here and there, but who didn’t, right? Pizza was no longer the enemy. I was no longer bound to oddball home-made lunches. Even the Golden Arches seemed, well, a bit more golden. I was finally free!
Or so I thought. The allergies came back with a vengeance. Then again, maybe they never really went away at all. Perhaps they were just on a brief hiatus…giving me a false sense of security and just waiting to rear their ugly head, only in a different way (helloooo, welts and hives!). Whatever the case, they’re baaaaaack. And they’re a real bitch. Which brings me to this blog. I’m more committed than ever to uncovering this lifelong mystery and finding a way to get well while living in a Foodie Nation. I’m trying it all: naturopathy, allergy institutes, IgE and IgG panels, food restriction and strict rotations, probiotics, GAPS, I.V. therapy, vitamin and mineral supplements, acupuncture, chiropractic (more on that later), reiki, muscle testing, biofeedback and, well, you get the picture.
I’m allowing myself to be poked and prodded. In some ways, I’m not only swallowing a gaggle of supplements and bland foods, but also a bit of my pride. I’m my own science experiment, for sure, but if it helps me (and anyone else) along the way then my efforts won’t be in vain. Stick with me, kid…
