Living My (Grandma's) Best Life

I have officially become my grandmother.

I know all girls worry about becoming their mothers, which is fair, but to be honest my mom gets more shit done in a day than an entire olympic curling team, so becoming her would not be that bad. I would make a really great omelet.

But I have surpassed my mother and skipped straight to my Gramma. My Gramma, may she rest in peace, was a lovely woman at her best and a wildly stubborn one at her worse. She was tenacious as hell and in my memories, always incredibly tough. She was also always ill.

From the time she was a toddler, my grandmother suffered from a wide array of disabilities–– so wide, in fact, we’re not even quite sure we know what all was included in her diagnosis. She grew up sick, and it only worsened as she got older. I have plenty of great memories of time spent with my Gramma, but in none of them is she healthy.

And in only the way a child can, my memories were also supremely about how all of this affected ME. I often dreaded calling my Gramma up to say hi because the conversations were never pleasant–– they were always about how bad she was feeling. Seven-year-old me just wanted to shake her and say “Let’s talk about something happier! You’ll feel better if we talk about more positive things!”

Well, in an interesting karmic twist, I have officially become my grandmother–– the perpetually sick person in the room. And it’s turned out to be good thing, because it’s allowed me to understand her better. It’s also allowed me to better understand why some of my loved ones don’t seem to “get it,” and why they drive so hard toward positivity on days I just need a listening ear for my litany of complaints (because, as we have discussed, I am a narcissistic beast).

Because when you’re sick, like my Gramma was or like I am or like anyone with chronic illness(es) is, it can consume you. When I’m not actively in a Crohn’s flare, I can go weeks without mentioning my condition, or thinking about it, or wanting to talk about it. During those times, it’s easy to be positive and post Instagram platitudes about keeping your head up.

But when you’re in a bout of being really sick, to the point where it’s hard to walk, or eat, or sleep like a normally functioning human, it takes up a lot of real estate in not just your body, but in your brain. You spend a lot of time alone, watching tv or reading a book because you’re too tired to go out. You have a lot of anxiety about doing anything that might make you feel worse–– including things as simple as lunch with a friend. And with all of your time and energy going into feeling the bare minimum levels of functional, it’s hard to think about anything else. You don’t have a fun story about what happened at the bar last week to contribute at friend story time–– you just have a fun story about how your new steroid is giving you insomnia, and late night tv is literally OVERFLOWING WITH FULL HOUSE RERUNS.

So when someone asks how you are, you know you should say “good,” and move on. Or better yet, bring up the latest craziness Donald Trump said or who you think got robbed at the Oscars. Almost anything is easier to say than “I’m in a lot of pain,” but for some reason, it’s all you want to say. Because not saying it makes you feel isolated.

I’m not sure what exactly I want people to say when I tell them about my experience or my symptoms. The most common response is something along the lines of “feel better soon,” and while I appreciate the sentiment, I would much rather just have someone acknowledge that it sucks. And that it’s not a cold–– I won’t get better soon, and the best way you can help me in the interim is by listening, and maybe by sending over some movie recommendations. I’m running out of rom coms.

Positivity is great, and has its place in coping. It’s a big, shiny place, where I get sick of feeling bad for myself and learn to love eating mostly pudding for months at a time. But before that place often comes feeling really shitty. So if you’re friends with someone with a chronic illness, I get it–– I get the desire to push them towards the shiny, positive pudding place. It’s easier. But it’s possible the best thing you can give them is an empathetic ear to rant to. And maybe some mashed potatoes.

Food: The Best Bad Boyfriend I've Ever Had

I love food. Food doesn’t love me back. It’s complicated.

Eating makes me happy when I’m in a bad mood. I know you’re not supposed to say that, or whatever, because then you’re admitting a dependency thing, but where can I be horribly honest if not the internet, where everyone can see it forever?

As a Midwesterner, my potatoes come with a side of potatoes. A hotdog is a snack. Cheese from a can is like, a fairly acceptable thing to ingest. Food is a huge part of my middle-class, Chicagoan culture.

After a bad day, I don’t want to run off my frustrations on a treadmill. I don’t want to do some meditative yoga until I’m more zen. I want to lay in my bed and watch "Broad City" while I eat chicken nachos out of a styrofoam container that’s resting on my boobs. That’s all I want. And it almost always helps.

Me and my true love: pizza the size of my skull

So what’s wrong with that, other than a future filled with heart disease? Well, the problem develops when food starts to be both the savior and the enemy. I was about 17 when it really starting biting me in the ass (pun intended).

For most of junior and senior year of high school, I could not eat a meal without almost immediately becoming violently ill. Like, the kind of ill where digesting food feels like tiny needles working their way through your body. I lived on ginger ale and saltines. It is a testament to how publicly I adore food that no one thought this was a sign of an eating disorder. My parents are blue collar Baby Boomers, so their answer to any and all medical problems is, “take a Tylenol, you’ll be fine!” After a 50+ pound weight loss, they finally agreed the Tylenol solution wasn’t going to cut it.

The problem was that food was no longer my friend, and I missed it. So after being officially diagnosed with Crohn’s disease and getting on medication I found to be magical, I told myself I was all patched up and could immediately commence shoving french fries in my face hole any time I wanted.

I was sadly mistaken. The thing about Crohn’s is that it’s not like a food allergy, or a temporary infection. You can’t just say “stop eating pine nuts and you’ll feel great!” Some days, I can eat my beloved cheeseburgers with only mild discomfort. Other days, eating a cheeseburger can mean having to cancel plans because hi, I’m suddenly doubled over in pain.

So why not just STOP EATING CHEESEBURGERS, you ask? Well, quitting delicious things like cheeseburgers, or alcohol, or really greasy pizza, is like dumping a really bad boyfriend. I know I need to, on a logical level, but then just when I’m about to I remember all the good times me and burgers have had, and I’m sucked back into their cheesy hypnosis. It's also hard when even the healthy foods aren't healthy for you–– when I'm in a flare, a salad is actually more likely to make me sick than some chicken nuggets. Diseases are wacky unpredictable like that.

What I’m saying is, it’s confusing when the thing you love is also the thing that hurts you the most. Due to a particularly bad flare of my disease, I’m currently on a bland diet. The bad boyfriend that is food got so bad that I could no longer write off his behavior–– my body’s inability to digest food is causing me to miss work, to not be able to see friends, and to have to go on medications that make me an insane, round-faced insomniac. I’ve met some amazing burgers in my life, but no burger is worth that.

It’s hard to give up stuff you love, even if it treats you badly in return. I know myself, and I know that I will never fully give up burgers, and nachos, and cheese fries. After this flare is over, I will return to them like an ex-boyfriend whose influence I can’t seem to shake. But hopefully the hold has lessened–– maybe I’ll only eat cheeseburgers every once in awhile, when I’m drunk. Like a cheeseburger booty call. That’s progress, right?

This Is (Kind Of, Not Really) A Health & Wellness Blog

I am not someone who ever thought I would be running a “Health & Wellness” blog.

When you’re building a blog, hosting sites want you to categorize it. Some people run lifestyle blogs. Some people run humor blogs. Some people run blogs just so they can post pictures of their dogs in funny hats. Those are the only kind of blogs worth reading.

When it comes down to categorizing it, I suppose this would be a health & wellness blog. It’s about me, because blogs are for narcissistic beasts. But more specifically, it’s about my experience with Crohn’s disease. It’s about how to hold down an adult job when you have dozens of doctor’s appointments, or how to kindly explain that not "looking sick" doesn't equate to being the picture of health.

Hello, it's me... and an uncharacteristically healthy food choice.

It’s about the foods that make me feel bad and the rom coms and fuzzy sock combos that make me feel good. It’s about dealing with a fear of dating because you're not certain who wants to sign on for someone who's always got something or another wrong with their body. It’s about having a place to vent frustrations and share happy thoughts.

So yes, it’s about health. And wellness. And what happens when you aren’t healthy, and you aren’t well, and the world keeps a-spinning anyways.

But here’s the disclaimer: I am the last person in the world who’s qualified to talk about health.

On any given day I might eat 2-3 different forms of potato. I've been known to prioritize eating a really good burger over my health. I swipe left on Tinder dudes who say they love working out because I just know we won’t get along. Last summer I went on a lengthy bike ride and got so winded I took a nap on a stranger’s lawn.

So if you’re looking for a health expert, there are many other blogs that will probably be more helpful to you. There are actual doctors and medical professionals available for chatting to on the internet! I am literally just a girl with Crohn’s disease who also likes to write, trying to come to terms with my shitty immune system in a public forum.

This blog may be for you, though, if you like any of the following: unsolicited advice, occasional over-honesty, a sense of humor about gross and sad things, cats, milkshakes, Taylor Swift, or adults who still sleep with stuffed animals.

So if you’re still reading, hi! My colon and my ego thank you.