I Don't Wanna

I knew about the Specific Carbohydrate Diet for four years before I tried it. Now, part of that time I was pregnant, nursing, and in blissfully total remission of my ulcerative colitus symptoms, but another part of that time (before pregnancy and after nursing) I was in terrible pain which led to a lot of stress, exhaustion and anxiety. I also felt guilty, foolish and embarrassed by my situation.

Why did it take me four years to try it? At the very center was the a feeling of deep dread that made me feel the frustration of a toddler. I wanted to shut my eyes, clench my fists and throw a tantrum. I don't wanna.

I grew up with parents who took us to restaurants with white table cloths, places where children were usually not seen. Before these dinners, my siblings and I were scrubbed, blow dried and styled like show dogs. I'm sure there was a discussion of manners or behavior but I don't remember them. These dinners shine in my childhood memories as some of the happiest, most vivid moments of my life.

I can still so clearly remember the dining room in La Parisian, the local "very fine" French restaurant where we had many long meals as a family. La Parisian was a cozy place, filled mostly with couples who probably felt somewhat anxious seeing my father and mother stride through the place with four children trailing behind them. I can assure you, it never occurred to me or any of my siblings to disrupt a moment of our sacred time in that beautiful room.

White tablecloths, plush seats, deep carpeting that muffled everything, teams of waiters moving with purpose and grace, and (most wonderful of all) a golden cart where samples of that nights desserts were paraded around the room. The golden cart would catch my eye throughout the evening, even as I greedily ate creamy escargot drenched in butter and gobs of garlic or as I struggled to daintily cut the meat from a frog's leg. I would strategize my dessert choice throughout the evening.

There was a swan made of puff pastry, filled with whipped cream that always tempted me. Knowing the pastry was not very sweet, my parents worked very hard to talk me out of and they were successful several times but one night, I walked in determined to order the swan for my dessert. How could anything that beautiful taste anything but wonderful? My parents were right. The dessert was too refined for my baby palate.

Food, both refined and unrefined, happy and unhappy, were at the center of most of my formative childhood experiences. Food was where I poured my time and energy as an adult and I often doubted my choice to live a professional life in the classroom instead of the kitchen. I married a man who loved good food and drink and his family was filled with excellent and interesting cooks. In time we had a daughter and she's growing up to be someone with a wide and adventurous palate.

But at a certain point, I started to feel like food was going to kill me. I'd had stomach issues on and off throughout my twenties and in my late twenties, I was diagnosed with a mean h pylori infection. Two rounds of strong antibiotics later (they were strong enough to alarm my pharmacist) and the infection was eradicated but my tummy issues were not.

As the years passed, my health became worse and how I felt day-to-day ruled our family life. On paper, our family ate healthily and deliciously-- lots of fruits, vegetables, whole grains, legumes and lean meats. In reality, my husband and daughter were thriving, practically glowing with good health while I was in near constant pain and went through periods of being house bound. Medication wasn't helping. Still, I wasn't ready to commit to a restrictive diet.

I didn't want to put restrictions on my kitchen. I didn't want to cook something for myself and then something I couldn't even taste for the rest of my family. I didn't want to spend the money on special foods-- so many of our family resources had been thrown at tests and doctor visits and medications already. I didn't want our food-loving families and friends to feel bad for me (or worse, to feel I was being a crazy, narcissistic special snowflake.) I didn't want to be the person at a gathering who made everyone uncomfortable by not eating. I didn't want to eliminate the rare pleasure of dining in a nice restaurant. I didn't want to annoy servers or chefs with special requests. I didn't want to try something extreme only to have it not work. I didn't want to try sometime extreme only to have it work and then have to eat that way for the rest of my life. Most of all, I didn't want to talk about being sick to a whole bunch of people.

So what changed? I was living in a flare that was in its fourth or fifth month. The common wisdom passed around for eating during a flare is to have nothing healthy, just simple carbs like crackers, and I was so fed up. One afternoon I had the audacity to eat a few bites of salad and some beans. They tasted so good but led to a terrible night where I went between being sick and laying on the bathroom floor, shaking and sleeping in a nightmarish fog. I woke up knowing I had to do something to regain some feeling of control. I was ready.