Posts Tagged ‘IBS’

I got the results of my blood tests back.  Everything came back normal: no vitamin deficiencies, no celiac, no Irritable Bowel Diseases, just a million and a half unexplained food allergies:

I can’t eat apples for six months.

I can’t eat grapes for 3 months.

I can’t eat another dozen foods for one month.

I can’t eat another 50 foods more than twice a week.  This very long list includes rice, wheat, and soy.

So, ahem, what’s left to eat?!

Well, a couple of weeks ago, I had a really nice visit with my awesome brother and his wife.  They brought me my belated birthday gift of some new grains and beans to try.  Not a moment too soon, either.

So, this week, I had Amaranth for breakfast.  It was delicious.

I’ve also invested in some nifty flours (including quinoa flour.  so cool!) so that I can bake bread that has a lower wheat content so if it’s not a wheat day, I can still indulge in some bread knowing that it’s not quite as wheaty as it might otherwise be.

Fortunately, three of my mainstays, mushrooms, spinach and onions, are NOT on any of the forbidden lists.  I can continue to saute to my hearts content because these puppies go on virtually everything.

Now we wait for the poop tests to come back and confirm the doctor’s suspicion that I’ve got a bacteria.  I’m praying he’s right.  I’m all for homeopathic and natural, but enough is enough, I want a little pill to make me better, damn it.

Here’s to continued food experimenting…leading to my eventual good health!


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Visions of carrying my poop, hidden away in a brown paper bag, into my doctor’s office swam through my head.  Like bringing the kitty poop in each year.

It’s not like that.  Not at all.

I had hoped to do the poop scoopin’ without my toddler around.  I’m an open-minded gal; we talk about all sorts of things.  But I really did not want to have to explain to her why mama was mailing her poop.  Her current trend of reenacting all the events of her life ad infinitum does not lend itself well to the embarrassing possibilities.

But(t), well, to put it bluntly, one poops when one poops.

So yesterday afternoon, with plastic gloves on, the smell of formaldehyde in the air mixed with the stench of yuck, and a little plastic basin balanced precariously on the corner of the bathroom sink, I scooped and mixed and shook while my daughter looked on curiously.

The conversation went something like this:

Mama: “Remember this morning at the hospital?  When the nurse took some blood tests of mama?  It’s to make sure mama is healthy.  Well, the doctor will check my poop too.  So I’m sending him some poop to test.”

Avi:  (Thinking hard.  Wrinkling her nose curiously.  Thinking hard some more.) “You’re cute, mama.”

Nothing like a toddler to make you feel better about scooping your own poop.

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Today is my thirtieth birthday.

It started with a successful visit to a new GI specialist to talk about the ol’ tum-tum.  It means that next week I’ll be having gallons of blood drawn, including some that will be mailed long-distance with an ice pack to somewhere in the middle of the country.  I’ll also be pooping in a bucket and scooping out little chunks to stick in many multi-colored tubes, also to be mailed to somewhere in the middle of the country.

It was a good start to my day.  No sarcasm here.  He took me seriously.  He agreed that I’m “managing my symptoms” but now we need to find the cause.  And my heart rejoiced.  Because why else have I been visiting all these doctors?  To find the cause.  It was a good start to my day.

The middle of my day culminated with my parents arrival with vegan cupcakes.  Yes, vegan cupcakes.  The most delicious chocolate confections that woman has ever known.  So satisfying.

It progressed to a round of Shrek III after a lovingly prepared meal of cheese enchiladas by my live-out hubby.

It was all good until I realized I’d over-indulged in the cheese.  So my tum-tum took its revenge for a while.

I’m all good now.

So let’s revisit this list I made sometime last year.  Let’s take a look at how realistic I thought it was at the time and how unrealistic it really was:

  1. find which grad program i would like to apply for…and in the process, figure out what subject i’d like to study. Okay, actually, I did manage to do this.  I haven’t actually applied, but technically that wasn’t part of the goal.  So….Me – 1, Reality – 0.
  2. pay off my car loan. Ha.  That is all I have to say about that.  Me – 1, Reality – 1.
  3. pay off my credit card. Technically, I did this about three times, possibly even more.  But since my car keeps loving me by breaking and I’m seeing a therapist who isn’t covered by insurance, I’m back up to about $4000.  Me – 1, Reality – 2.
  4. begin a college fund for A__. Well here’s one that made sense.  Okay then.  Me – 2, Reality – 2.
  5. buy a dresser. I guess I’m not doing so bad since I managed this one too.  Me – 3, Reality – 2.
  6. find a spiritual community. Hunh, well, I’m not sure what to do about this one since I crossed it off of my list when I realized it was a red herring.  I guess, though, since it was on the list to start out with, the point does not go to me after all.  drat.  Me – 3, Reality – 3.
  7. decide where i would like to live: here, a neighboring town, or an entirely new locale. You’d think this would be easy.  It’s not.  It’s so not.  Me – 3, Reality – 4.
  8. find a publisher for this book . Right.  Me – 3, Reality – 5.
  9. be able to run a mile. No comment.  Me – 3, Reality – 6.
  10. create the time in my life to do five minutes of yoga every morning. that’s not too much. i really think it can be done. and i really think my back will thank me for it. and maybe A__ will do it with me too which would make it that much more fun 🙂 I’m gonna give this one to me.  I don’t do yoga every day, but Avi and I go once a week and I go on my own once a week so I think I deserve something for that.  120 minutes of yoga, divided by 7 days actually ends up being more than five minutes a day anyways.  Me – 4, Reality – 6.

FINAL TALLY:  Me – 4, Reality – 6.

Actually, that’s better than I expected when I started this exercise.  To be honest, it wasn’t an entirely heart-felt exercise so I don’t really feel all that bad about any of it.  Except running a mile.  I really wanted to hit that one.  I think I’m up to a quarter of a mile.  Maybe by spring.

And this year?  Well, last year I wanted a Zen year, where nothing happened.  No major strife, changes, or life-upheavals.  I didn’t quite get it, so this year I’m really going for the Zen year.  As of this Saturday, I will have completed my last freelance project of the year.  And so for one full year it will be just me, my day job, my child, and the fun/meditation/therapy/cooking that will kick this stomach mayhem in the ass and let me live my life again.

And so ends this poorly constructed and down-right rambling birthday post.  Here’s to another year and many more to come.

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Dairy Dreamin’

Thanks to this, I’ve been eating vegan for a month.

It’s okay, but I crave protein constantly.  And I really miss cheese.

Last night, I dreamed that I drank a huge glass of milk.  It was delicious.

Every time I pour myself a glass of soy milk, I smell it, hoping it will smell like creamy cow milk.

So today, since I’ve been doing so well…I ate cheese!  Cheese!  Yes!  Cheese!  Two 1/4″ x 1″ x 2″ slices of the most heavenly organic cheddar.  Of course, in my current state, processed American would taste heavenly.

I made sure to put the block of cheese away in the fridge before I sat down to eat so I wouldn’t be tempted “to have just one more.”

This was at 2pm.  It’s now 8pm.

So far, so good.

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the nausea comes in waves.

the tingling is everywhere but concentrates itself in the back of my neck.

the tremors start in my gut and radiate out through my shoulders and into my legs.

i walk.

i walk a path into the floor.

i walk to keep from vomiting.

i walk to keep the tremors from shaking me to pieces.

and all because of some eggs.  or milk.  or an insipid ingredient in the bean-o that i didn’t notice until after i’d chewed up two chalky pills: cod.

this was last night.

i’m still out of sorts.  i can’t get it out of my system.  one lousy mistake and now it will take days to reset my system to digest again.  it will take days to reset my psyche to sleep again.

it will take days.

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Date #1:

Local Psychotherapist with greying black hair curling half way down her back.  She likes to tell me I’m right and ask me my opinion on why my live-out-hubby made the choices he made.  She brings up my parents and also comments on “how amazing it is that so many couples with little kids separate unnecessarily…you can speak your mind.  i’m not judging you.”

I cried, of course.  I was really fucking nervous. I’ve never sat in an office with someone who was diagramming my personality in a little manila folder and expecting me to re-hash my decisions and then affirming them for me.

By the time my “hour” was up, I was crying because I was angry.  She was supposed to be the one.  I wasn’t supposed to have to go on a hunt for a fucking counselor.  I was supposed to be able to go see this woman, we’d click, she’d help me figure out why occasionally I’m sad, why my body is in revolt, why I feel a little stuck even though I’m actively moving forward.

Instead, I got affirmations about choices I already know were right.  I got a raised eyebrow when I mentioned naturopathy and yoga.  I got a shocked “oh” twice when she discovered my live-out hubby and I are dating other people but neither one of us started dating other people until we’d been separated for almost a year.  I got judged by the fact that I have a better relationship with my ex now that we’re separated than we ever did as a couple.  And I was told repeatedly that if my husband and I ever decide to “give it another go” we should have couples counseling.

  • Some people actually know who they are before therapy and just need a little help occasionally.
  • Some people believe that alternative therapies are valid, important contributions to health and well-being.
  • Some people end their marriage because “it’s just not working” not because we were cheating on each other.  Some of us do, indeed, have honor and scruples.
  • Some of us are better parents when we don’t have to spend all of our time being angry at each other.
  • Some of us really are okay being separated and moving on.

Some of us = me.  I can’t be that fucking unusual, people, so cut me some slack.

So now, I have to go through this whole fucking thing again with another counselor, and another, and another.  If I have to fucking cry every single time, I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.  I promised myself and several people that I will find a counselor but this is a very bad start and I’m not feeling good about it.  However, I think I’d like to write the word fuck one more time.  Because, oddly enough, that makes me feel better.


I hate doctors.

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Hello, Heart

During and just prior to my separation from my husband, I learned to compartmentalize.  Before this happened, I never fully understood what the word meant.  I heard Sydney say it again and again as she addressed the moral ramifications of being a spy, but I never got it.

Not that I’m a spy or anything.

Although, if I were, I don’t supposed I could tell you.

Let’s just say that now I get it.  I know what it means to place a feeling in a box and put it away.  If you were to pull it out again, it would be in the way of getting life done.  Of living the way you needed to live in order to survive.  In my case, caring for a newborn daughter, or avoiding crashing on my long commute, being at work, or simply eating.  I wasn’t an expert that’s for sure because the box would bust open and I would feel so much of everything that the loss of emotional control was virtually unbearable.

An avid journal-writer, I even stopped writing because it would mean pulling out each box to examine its contents and I just couldn’t risk it.

Now, a year and a half later, my body is in complete rebellion.  I don’t know if my IBS (or whatever it is) is being caused by the emotional trauma of my life up-ending itself.  But, I can say for certain, that the act of pulling out and poking at all those little boxes is definitely making me feel better.

I write everyday–in my journal where prying eyes like yours will never go.  I now exercise everyday–including yoga, which tonight was a brilliantly timed “open heart” session that made my chest ache for the first twenty minutes as all the muscles surrounding and protecting my heart were forced to release.  I made my first ever appointment with a counselor–the act of simply making the appointment made me cry for twenty minutes.

I still believe there is an actual underlying physical cause to my uber gut-aches.  But, in the meantime, I think I’m going to enjoy releasing my heart to live again.  There is a brilliance that I have been living without.  It will be nice to have it back.

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