Step 1: Make a paste out of herbs. Step 2: Rub it on your face. Step 3: Who's a pretty princess?

The Crohn's truck ran me down. Then it backed up, ran over me again, went forward, hit me again, then sort of parked on my head. Then the driver lit a cigarette and the whole truck went up in flames.

I'm not going to go into details. Is anything as boring as people complaining about their health on the internet? No. I would rather have to take the SAT every day for the rest of my life than rerad someone whining about how brave they are because they puke a lot.

Did I mention sometimes I puke? I am so brave.

The upshot is that, without "commitments," "a job," or "a greater life purpose," I've got some pure, undistilled blogging time. What fun we're all about to have! I'm back!

Please do stay tuned.

My triumphant retur--wait, I had a blog?

My friend Bulwyf (not his name) had cancer and painstakingly blogged every treatment. He is a man of many talents; when I met him, he was a "Top Gun" enthusiast and amateur quilter. Who knew he was also a science nerd and a pretty solid writer?

Once again, acute illness is the rock tumbler that brings out our true brilliance! 

Thanks, "genetic risk factors" combined with "environmental triggers"!

Dude did his research. And he went through a lot. If he could keep his blog going, what excuse do I have for falling into a Twinkie coma?

LINGUISTIC MINUTE: did you know that "coma" is Spanish subjunctive for "comer", "to eat"? Fun fact to know, because "comer-ing" is exactly what led me to be chilling at home on a Friday night in my underwear, not answering my phone and cursing my air conditioner to work harder, damn you! 

My (debatable) mistake is your (debatable) gain, though, 'cause I'm back to blogging.

What fun we're all about to have!

Oh, but seriously, go read The Great Monocytic Purge. I've gotta go see a guy about some cookies.

Liveblogging my destruction

This is a total Narrator/ Tyler Durden showdown in my head right now.

Source: theantiroom.com

I have been feeling horrible lately, so I am severely restricting what I eat. I counted, and just realized all I have had today is tea, two gluten-free chicken tenders, and some terrible rice noodles.

I. Am. So. Hungry.

Meanwhile, my body is primal-scream yelling "MEAT!", and the angel on my shoulder is trying to temper its bloodlust: "Well, you have a can of lentil soup in the pantry...maybe that would...kind of...be like... oh, whatever, eat a fucking burger."

So that's where I am right now. And, right now, odds are 60/40 on the burger.

I know! Could it possibly get any more exciting? Stay tuned.
_________

OK, I had a burger. And five tiny beignets. I HAVE NO SHAME.

I went to this tiny bistro down the street, and had rousing conversations with all of the staff, and I danced outta there with burger-shaped hearts and stars over my head.

Kale just doesn't treat me this good.

You cocky bastard.

Eating Actual Food: Take Fifteen

As of roughly 1pm today, I'm back on the "eating better" wagon. (I'm writing it publicly so it might become true.) Girl cannot live on Swedish Fish alone.

Plus, if I can get off all my toxic meds, maybe I'll only get "cancer of the torso" instead of "cancer of the everything." A girl can dream!

Plus, the more kale I eat, the more I weaken Terrence's life force. It's true.

If you believe in fairies, clap your hands! (It distracts Terrence from his Xbox.)

Really, I think we can agree this is a win-win-win situation.

So far, "3/4 of a day" down! Only "a lifetime" to go.

.....

Ugh, fuck. Where's a "depression cake" when you need it.

Greek Chorus

Y'all, right now the teenager in my head is winning so hard. And he sucks.

What a little shit.

When I gently remind him that we need to do things, like "shower" or "get on the train", he shrugs me off. Then I have to stand between him and the TV, unplugging his Xbox and throwing his clothes in his lap, panicked at how late we are. He hates that. He calls me unprintable names and then I have to wrestle him to the ground and put him in the goddamn shower, because, so help me god, one of us needs to go to work.

The thing about Terrence (his name is Terrence) is that he's very persuasive. And Terrance is wearing me down.

Today I started off full of great intentions. I made some hippie tea and did some yoga! Today was gonna be an adult day starring adult impulse control!

Then good ol' Terrance stomped in, and demanded a coffee and a latte and a bunch of candy and some leftover Indian food, and, well, I caved. I'm just too tired to fight him.

Now Terrance is back in front of his Xbox, slack jawed, and I'm canceling plans to stay in and nurse my sick stomach.

Don't you "shush" me, Terrence. You're the worst.

T-Rexes Among Us

Here’s the thing: I am not only a creature of civilization, I’m an asthmatic person. I will only live so long as I have stockpiled the proper inhalers. I’m effectively a cyborg. You know how in Jurassic Park, they bred those dinosaurs with the lysine deficiencies, so if they ever got off the island, they’d die? That’s me. I’m the dinosaur that’s going to die in the New World.

- John Hodgman, via The Onion AV Club

Sunday before bed, I ate two Pillsbury cookies. I got violently ill and woke the next day feeling like someone had taken a cheese grater to my stomach.

On Monday, I had chicken enchiladas. The rest of the evening was spent rending my garments and shaking my fist at an unfair God.

If John Hodgman is a Lysine-deficient T-rex, I'd put myself somewhere around this guy:

(I found this picture at work. 

A coworker walked by, looked at it, and went, 

"Oh, when I was in the Peace Corps, I ate one of those.")  

Before anyone gets too bummed out, consider, if you will, his adorable scrappiness. He's also stylin' in Day-Glo green!

This little dude will be okay. Unless, of course, Jeff eats him.

Identifying with Your Captor: Stockholm Syndrome and You

Dudes, this week I have felt wretched. Which means that I've been at the mercy of some intense, pathological sugar cravings.

A craving will descend, and I will go glassy eyed. I'll be spotted by security cameras in the candy aisle at a CVS, then will wake up three hours later in South Jersey with my bra in my back pocket and a passport belonging to someone named Mychylle. And where did all this blood come from? Oh my god, there's so much blood.

Have you ever had Mike and Ikes? They're terrible!

Source: reason.com

Like poison frogs in the rainforest, these bright colors send the signal, "Eat me, and I will fuck your shit up." But, when sick, my stupid bird-brain wants nothing but Amazonian frogs. I ate an entire package of these things at work yesterday, pausing between bites to go, "Ugh, these are awful."

Come on, Bird Brain, you and "intestines" need to have a talk. Whose team are you on?

On the plus side, I've got a pretty good working knowledge of New Jersey Transit these days.

What Passes for Affection

I'm currently on Cimzia, a stinging bastard of a drug that gets injected to my arm via turkey baster-sized needle. I get one injection per arm every two weeks.

Source: pharmacytimes.com

Today, the nurse pinched the flesh on the back of my arm in preparation for shooting me up. "I like you," she said, and I smiled, assuming she meant my sparkling wit or magnetic personality. "You have a lot to grab onto here. A lot of our patients don't have enough to grab, but I'm getting a good pinch."

She pressed the plunger on the syringe, and there was a thoughtful pause. "Yes. Yes, I like you."

"Morbus Crohn"

If Crohn's comes up in a conversation to a friend, I always follow it with, "But don't wiki it, 'cause that shit is horrifying, even to me." True story--the Crohn's wiki entry will make you feel like a diseased, convulscing toad.

However, the wiki entry is SO MUCH BETTER in German. 

Turn that frown upside-down like only the Germans know how, y'all!

And stay tuned for my new band, "Differentialdiagnostik." (We're not very good.)

Wah-Wahh, goes the IBD trombone.

This week has really kicked my ass.

I think it started when I signed up for a study on IBD and Meditation. I was randomized into the "control" group, which meant that I sat in a room for 9 hours and listened to well-intentioned, but soul-stomping-boring lectures on different aspects of IBD. I was the youngest person there by at least 10 years.

It had a weird effect: rather than being simply boring, it was profoundly stressful. At one point, my doctor pulled me aside to champion some new, experimental drug she thought I should try, and I deflated.

For the last fifteen years, I've built a successful career as a human by compartmentalizing my illness. For years I didn't even mention Crohn's to my friends, ever. During the day I'm a regular 20-something; at night....I may or may not cancel our plans, but I'm still a regular 20-something. I'm just a delightfully flighty, not-at-all sick friend! No big, y'all!

Sitting in a room for 9 hours, hearing about different ways Conventional Medicine has failed to help me, left me feeling like I'd been kicked in the gut. (Pun...intended?)

Apriso, Mesalamine

(Look at how pretty this little buddy is! 

It does fuck-all, but it really brings out the color of your eyes 
and matches most handbags.)

I've crawled out of my K-hole enough to recognize it as a K-hole, not "omigodomigodIshouldjustmovebackhomenow,everythingisshitandalwayswillbe." 
I'll be back and at 'em, and hopefully will only fall to pieces on subways when I still have the capacity to find it funny.

Oh, and I always find it funny. 

Getting Good at Public Embarrassment

I've got this black-and-white striped tunic, which I love. As I pulled it out of my closet this morning, I thought, "Oh yeah. Last time I wore this, I had to wash it because I sobbed all over it on the subway home." I finished getting dressed and went to a doctor's appointment.

After the appointment, overwhelmed and oversaturated, I sobbed on the M train home. Again! It was eerily identical to the last time I cried all over this shirt: I'm wearing almost exactly the same outfit; I was waiting at exactly the same subway stop; I covered my stupid eyes with the same stupid sunglasses. (Don't worry, guys! The shirt is fine.)

There is a distinct Jekyll and Hyde element to this experience. As I type this, it is at least three hours later. I am on my friend's couch in his beautiful Greenpoint apartment. We're listening to Beck and my toes are cold, and I am housecat-content.

Three hours ago, I was snotting all over my pillowcase at home.

I don't know how to integrate the two extremes, my misery this morning vs. my okayness now. It feels like there is no solution to the frustration; only pleasant distraction. Perhaps I fear once I am alone again and everything is quiet, it will come back. Perhaps the fear isn't "fear" at all, but rather "certainty."

And, I dunno. I guess as far as distractions go, this is as pleasant as it gets.

Fare Thee Well, McNuggets. We Hardly Knew Thee.

About a year ago, I was seeing an acupuncturist. He kept giving me vague dietary advice, then got frustrated when I utterly and completely failed to follow it.

"You have to eat anyway!" I remember him sighing. "Why not make better choices?"

I wiped the buttercream off my face and gaped at him. Where do you even start?

What "making better choices" actually means is "change everything you know." It means "don't drink with your friends," "get to bed by 10 so you can wake up to cook before work," "politely decline pizza when you're out at 2am (oops to that 10pm bedtime.)" It also means "make food an issue."

Anyone with a specialized diet knows this: you can't hide food. It's very public and very intimate all at once, and it becomes a topic of conversation whether or not you want it to.

• If you say you're a Vegan, people nod indulgently but think, "No, I don't want to give $10 to Greenpeace." 

• If you're gluten-free, people wonder what you have and silently hope they don't get it. 

• If you decline enough drinks, your date might ask you if you're a recovering alcoholic. (No, I'm not, but I wasn't going to make out with you anyway, no matter how drunk you got me. Michael.) 

So what do you do when you don't want food to be an issue? When you just want to hang with the normalos? When you want to buy a bunch of Sour Patch Kids and shove them at your face with wild-eyed abandon?