Appreciation For Simple Pleasures (Almost) Comes Too Late
I was nervous as I stepped into the nearby Carraba’s. I was meeting my mother for a casual lunch, and although I loved their food and loved eating at restaurants — it hadn’t been fun in months. We were quickly seated and handed menus. I poured over my food options as if I’d never been there before. And, unconfidently, I chose a Caesar salad.
The first bite I took was small. It went down with some effort. Each bite required careful chewing and consideration before swallowing — if I could swallow it at all. As had happened before, when I attempt to swallow and fail, my entire body’s muscles clench painfully from anxiety.
It happened again as my mother calmly ate her fettucini alfredo. My heart thudded in my chest and I shut my eyes as I reminded myself that I wasn’t choking, and I wasn’t dying. But I was mortified. I looked up to see if my mother noticed. I looked around and caught the eye of one of the staff members. I glanced away.
My breathing relaxed after a minute; my heart eventually calmed down. My mother ignored me, but I knew she noticed anyway. I shivered and put my fork down. I was done.
This all started sometime last year when I could no longer tolerate meats and my beloved kimchi. I do suspect it occured even before then when French fries required ample amounts of water, and starches were like lumps in my throat. Either way, the problem evolved until I was opting for foods like squeezable applesauce and milkshakes and avoiding anything sticky, starchy, meaty, or chewy. Eating had become a tired game I didn’t want to play. Will I swallow this, or will I have to spit it out? I ignored the problem as best I could, but I was losing weight on my already thin frame and getting frustrated. I was constantly hungry, and most foods went to waste.
Around June, I called my primary care physician and spoke to the receptionist over the phone. I admitted I wasn’t sure if my inability to swallow was psychological or physical. I felt crazy and uncomfortable explaining the situation. What if it was all in my head? Apparently, that’s what the receptionist thought, too, as she rudely told me to see a therapist. I haven’t called there since.
The problem continued, and eventually, I made another attempt to have someone help me figure out what was going on. I went to a clinic where they told me I had strep throat. I was stunned. I had no symptoms, but I was hoping for an easy fix, so I said nothing. The doctor gave me a funny look when I told her I wasn’t able to swallow any pills. That’s why I went to the clinic in the first place, I told her. She prescribed the liquid version. I faithfully took the required doses, but — and I wasn’t surprised — the issue persisted.
Recently, I decided to skip the middleman. I made an appointment with an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist who had good reviews on Yelp.
The doctor’s bedside manner was polite but not really approachable. But what was most important was that he listened attentively and without judgment. After listening to me explain the situation and after asking some questions, he decided he needed to perform an endoscopy (they stick a tube down your nose with a camera attached to look at your throat). Afterward, the doctor told me I was congested.
“I know!” I lamented. “I tried everything — allergy medicine and even Mucinex.”
He nodded his head patiently before telling me the culprit of all of my problems was most likely related to acid reflux. I’d had a history of heartburn and other unpleasant digestive issues. I wasn’t surprised, but I was skeptical even though he mentioned seeing evidence of damage to my esophagus. That could be causing the congestion, too? I guess so.
He gave me a medication used to treat a damaged esophagus. He told me that after three weeks if that didn’t help he’d have to increase his measures. I don’t know what he meant by that.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I’d lost my ability to eat a real meal that I learned to appreciate food. I can cook; I just didn’t want to cook. Now I do. Partially out of necessity, but also because I really miss experimenting with flavors and foods like during my foodie days in college. Eating soft and liquid foods is cumbersome and dull, and now I am craving things I would never have touched before — like steak. I want to cook a steak. It’s weird.
It’s been a week since I’ve started the medication. There have been small wins but also setbacks. I’m not 100 percent confident about my diagnosis, but I will try anything at this point. I’m altering my diet to avoid particular foods in hopes I can point to something real that will help me heal. Avoid these foods, take your medicine, and you’ll be cured — can it be that easy, please? Hanging over my head, however, is if I’ll ever be back to normal again and what it takes to get back to normal.
The last thing I want is surgery, but as someone I know always tells me when I don’t want to do something: “Suck it up, buttercup!”
I suppose “c’est la vie” is also a suitable expression for my current condition. Even if my diet is altered for the long haul, it’s not the end of the world. It’s a good time to see this challenge as a positive one and get a bit healthier in the process.
Make do with what I can, hope for the best, and maybe search for the perfect made-from-scratch tomato bisque soup recipe in the meantime.
