I’ve just been diagnosed with Celiac Disease. The detective work…the endless medical sleuthing is FINALLY over. Frankly, I’ll miss the trench coat. The sleazy hotel rooms. The film noir internal dialogue (hmm, that may persist).
You see, for the past year doctors have been trying to figure out what was wrong with me (physically). This was the symptom: “Waaaa, I can’t get out of bed. I’m so bloody exhausted – EXHAUSTED – do you hear me? No, it’s not because I had six ciders and told a slew of knock knock jokes at the Legion the night before. My surroundings are a muddy, boggy haze – a blur of beige and blah.” (Or, something like that).
So, check – they did: For Diabetes, Leukemia, Multiple Sclerosis, Brain Tumours, Crazy Straw addiction…all the serious stuff.
Finally, a diagnosis: Celiac Disease. I am in the doctor’s office. She announces the verdict. I leap from my chair. Pump my fist in the air. “YEEEAAAH. I KNEW there was something wrong.” The search is over. NOW, I can begin to get better. I want to get better. Now. Now. NOW!” I stomp my foot.
It’s not that easy. It’s going to take a few months. Celiac is an auto-immune disease. What causes it? Don’t know. They DO know the disease can be turned ‘on’ by any number of factors: A virus, surgery, giving birth, an Albert Brooks movie, physical trauma, or even severe and sudden emotional stress. Whatever it was… in the past year, my stomach wall began attacking itself everytime I ate gluten (found in wheat products). Eventually, the intestines became so damaged, I was no longer absorbing nutrients. Nothing. Nada. The exhaustion was due to malnutrition. I was malnourished! This will continue, unless I abstain from gluten.
So, no more cakes, muffins, cookies, pancakes, bread, pasta…or happiness. But, wait, THERE’S MORE! Gluten is also in sauces and dressings, and soups…oh my. It seems like it’s floating in the feral environment, because everytime I want to eat something, I discover it contains gluten. My saving grace – it’s NOT in penny candy and wine. There IS a God,
But, now I’m one of those picky, detailed-obsessed restaurant patrons inquiring about ingredients. THIS from the girl who used to scarf down an entire platter of fudge…or greasy fries…or carton of ice cream. In fact, I’ve always had a huge Type A impatience for any slow, detailed, methodical behaviour. The sort found in people who, when opening presents, slide their hand underneath the wrapping paper seam to avoid rips, slowly unwrapping and folding afterwards for RE-USE. I feel like shouting: “OH MY GOD! Just RIP IT! TEAR IT! Who the Hell do you think you are making us watch your painfully, achingly, SLOW attempt at re-using and recycling. WE’VE GOT A LIFE. WE’VE GOT THINGS TO DO!!” (Which is when I’m usually escorted from the party). Now, I’ve become one of them in the form of that irritating restaurant patron.
They say Celiac is derived from Irish ancestry. Oh great. I’ve got a disease that targets a group of people whose sole energies comprise writing poetry and drinking liquor. What kind of advances is this group going to make in pushing for research? If I was carrier of – say -an affliction commonly found in Jewish Americans, things would get DONE. There would be lobby groups, meetings with Congress for funding, ongoing research, a celebrity spokesperson, an annual telethon, and an International Research Facility for Celiac Disease conducting trial studies on the foreskins of endangered, newborn pandas.
But, no. My ancestral people are more inclined to gather ’round the local pub. “Now, our task is to come up with a list of liquors that DO contain gluten, and a list of those that DON’T. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…what am I thinking?! We don’t even need the DON’T list if we have the DO! That cuts our work in half, right there, doesn’t it!”
“Seamus, what rhymes with gluten?”
And, finally, unlike my father and his French background…there is my mother in all her blunt Irish-ness.
“Oh sure, it runs in the family. Your second cousin, Mary, in County Kerry was diagnosed too.”
Really mom? How is she?
“Dead.”