When I first figured out that I could no longer consume oatmeal, or for that matter, anything that had ever brushed up against an oat, I doubted my self-diagnosis for years. I'd pretend that maybe it was my imagination, that I was blowing things out of proportion, or seeing connections that were really just coincidences. I'd try to eat things that I wanted, and damn the consequences. And thus, I would wake up in the middle of the night, pulled out of deep sleep by knifing pain in my belly, and I'd suffer for days for my little acts of rebellion. Finally I had to admit to myself that there was never going to be another bowl of Cap'n Crunch in my future, that I couldn't just pick the topping off of someone's homemade apple brown Betty and be okay.
I have treated my problems with wheat in a very similar fashion. I wondered whether I was just going along with the fashionable gluten free movement, and that I didn't really have any true reaction other than a psychosomatic one, as if I could will my waistline to swell four or five inches in an hour, like a weird, attention-seeking magic trick. A few times when I'd had bad days, I used to say stupid things like, "F it. I don't care anymore. I'm going to eat sopapillas and no one can stop me." These days always ended badly. I never avoided the pain and the week-long gut reactions. But every six or eight months or so, I'd forget or doubt myself, and go through it all over again.
I have been a hard-liner at my house, and it has caused a bit of strife in our relationship. Mr S-P does not like it when I pitch a fit and say no, he can't bring home his leftovers from Lucile's, because I know he'll drop biscuit crumbs all over the kitchen. He thinks I'm being condescending or reactionary. I'm really just trying to protect myself. I had to be the bad guy at Christmas when the message didn't get out to all my in-laws and children that I really can't have crumbly cookies in the house, and I segregated all gluten-eaters to one side of the dining setup. I felt awful for having to say anything. So with all that guilt riding on my head, I wondered just how picky I have to be in restaurants. I hate being the high maintenance weirdo who says to put the garlic bread that comes with my dinner on a separate plate and give it to my dining companions, or the one who makes wait staff run back to the kitchen and check menu items for me. Yesterday I did the bread thing, intending just to eat a salad, but when the Mr ordered fries to accompany his sandwich "so we could share" (since I was giving up my bread), I went along with it. I ate maybe ten or fifteen of the fries, pulled from his plate that was covered in tiny bread crumbs from his sandwich. I couldn't have consumed as much wheat as would cover the head of a pin. But I barely made it home from the restaurant that is three blocks from our house before I started having trouble. This morning, before I'd ever made it out of bed I knew I was wrecked. I spent all day feeling like I had a stomach bug. I slept away the morning, and limped around all afternoon. Yes, I'm sure it was a digestive issue. You can imagine the rest from there.
I have days when I hate being like this. I want to believe that it's not real, that I'm just going along with the fad. My doctor in Charleston did run a blood test to see whether I have some genetic marker for Celiac, which I did not have. But obviously there's something working against me here. I'd love to return to the simpler days when I could enjoy sourdough slathered in butter, or oatmeal raisin cookies, or extra crispy fried chicken from KFC. All that is lost to me now. It would be so much easier if it were just me following a fad. I'd rather be merely pretentious than stuck forever without a hope of a cheat day. Why couldn't I just be wrong?
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