Repeat After Me: Being Sick is Not a Point of Failure

There’s no definitive cause to Crohn’s disease. Like a variety of other diseases from Ulcerative Colitis to Lupus to Alopecia, it’s a mysterious variety of factors that may or may not cause illness to develop in a patient. Suffice it to say–– it’s not the patient’s fault that they have these diseases.

I definitely didn’t ask for Crohn’s disease. I was just a high school junior, living my life, studying for the ACT, working at Applebee’s, and watching way too much Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I was just like all my friends, until my body decided that food wasn’t a thing it was going to put up with anymore. And just like that, I went from healthy 17-year-old to chronic illness patient for life. My intestines did not consult me about this.

And here’s the thing–– our society places a really high premium on being healthy. Which is great! It (hopefully) stops people from eating french fries for every meal, because who wouldn’t want to do that if health weren’t a factor? It keeps us exercising, and eating well, and all of those other good, Instagrammable things. We should definitely all be aware of the parts of our health that are within our control, like cholesterol levels and BMI, as much as we can. But what about the parts that are out of our control?

When we talk about health like it’s a personal success, the problem is that we all too often then talk about illness like it’s a personal failure. So many people pride themselves on not having to take pharmaceuticals, or on getting by on yoga and their unrelenting positivity. But that puts those of us who kind of need pills and infusions and fancy CT machines in a shitty spot.

I may not have hiked the Grand Canyon but I looked HELLA athletic sitting on the edge.

So even if you think Big Pharma is evil and ruining America, please try to keep that to yourself when talking to someone with a serious illness. Believe me, we don’t want to be on all these pills. We don’t want to be dependent on so many things to get by. But we are, and it’s not something we’ve chosen. Being sick is not a failing on our part, and doing what we have to do to get through it is also not open to judgement. Believing we as humans don’t “need” pills for health is a viewpoint that all too often comes from a place of privilege. Just because you personally don’t need medication to make it through the day does not mean others don’t.

So I’m not saying we should stop celebrating the healthy–– marathon runners are crazy wonderful mutants and they deserve those medals and the little “26.2” bumper stickers to put on their Jeeps. But just make sure that when you are going after your own health goals, or talking to someone else about theirs, that we aren’t all the same. For a normal person a health goal might be training for a triathlon. For someone with a chronic disease, a health goal might be a walk around the block or, if you’re me, some incredibly low-key yoga. All options are valid and great, and one is not better than the other.

So practice a little empathy next time you’re around the water cooler talking diets or exercise regimens. We can’t all climb Everest, but hopefully we can all make ourselves feel successful in one way or another.

I Used To Go Hard and Now I Just Go Home

In the words of classic philosopher Beyonce Knowles…. “‘I’ve been drinking.”

And boy, have I ever. When you’re 24 and living in a big city with a bunch of your best friends, going out isn’t really part of the territory–– it is the territory. I have friends that work in bars. I have a workplace with a keg. Happy hours and boozy brunches are really standard plans, and it’s still very common to just meet at a bar with no intention for the night aside from drinking.

And yet–– I’m currently in a health-induced no-drinking zone.

It’s not a hard and fast rule my doctors demanded, but in a world where I can’t eat chicken because it irritates my stomach too much, giving up alcohol indefinitely was a (disappointing) no-brainer. And I honestly don’t mind all that much–– giving up cheeseburgers was a hell of a lot harder, personally. But it does put kind of a crimp in all of those aforementioned social plans when I can’t partake in the part that puts the “happy” in happy hour.

From a drink with dinner to... whatever this is.

It’s not that I can’t have fun without alcohol. Duh, Netflix exists. There are puppies in the world. And funny movies. I can eat cake, and dance badly to Taylor Swift songs. There are a million ways to have fun without drinking. But when you’re a certain age, being sober can make you the odd one out in social scenarios. And explaining why you aren’t drinking can get a bit exhausting as well. Ordering a ginger ale at a bar isn’t exactly the most normal and innocuous thing to do, and while people are always super chill about it when I say I can’t drink, it’s still a conversation to be had.

When I first realized I would have to stop drinking indefinitely, I assured all of my friends that nothing would change. I would still go out to bars with them until 2 AM–– don’t worry! But I’ve realized, thanks to the additional impact of fatigue, that I actually can’t just continue on my social life as normally scheduled minus the gin and juice. So what do you do when your body is conspiring against your ability to have a good time?

You make some changes. You start suggesting evening and daytime hangouts, where you’re more likely to have some energy and alcohol isn’t always an assumed part of the socialization like it can be on a Saturday night. My body pretty much powers off at 9 PM these days, making it hard to make it out at all–– let alone stay out. But you know what I realized? Going out to bars isn’t the only way to see friends, or meet people, or have a good time.

My life now is just like this, if you replace the vodka sodas with Ensure.

I’ve started having friends over for dinner. I’ve taken up (booze free) brunch like it’s an olympic event. I’ve perused locally owned bookstores with my mom, and gone for facials with my best friend. I’ve learned to have fun with a trip to the grocery store or a solid morning yoga session. As it turns out, life exists before 9 PM, and it’s actually really nice. And waking up not hungover on a Sunday morning is a revelation. Last weekend I baked muffins. I barely recognize myself.

Point being, if alcohol is harming your health for whatever reason, giving it up doesn’t have to be a death sentence for your social life. There are plenty of activities (like music events, comedy shows, etc) that might be a little more fun a few beers in, but are just as valid and entertaining as the sober one in the room. And it might sound cliche, but it’s true: if I surround myself with the right people, I really don’t need to be drunk to laugh my face off or dance to Beyonce. It comes naturally.

Restaurant Eating for the Dietarily Restricted

I hate the word foodie, because it brings to mind a really wealthy brunch addict who instagrams pictures of their kale salads and smells their wine before they drink it.

So I’ll just say that I love food.

And more than loving food itself, I love going out to eat. The whole process has always been fun for me–– choosing a great restaurant, eating awesome food with the right company. And living in a city like Chicago, I could pretty much try a new restaurant every weekend and still never make a dent in all there is to be eaten here.

I'm not immune to the brunch Instagram. I'm human.

So imagine my struggle with new dietary restrictions.

“Dietary restrictions” is a kind term for my current eating situation. To me, dietary restrictions means something simple that you could write on the RSVP card to a wedding: “I’m a vegetarian,” “I can’t eat gluten,” “I’m dairy free,” “I will be dining at the open bar.”

But with Crohn’s (and colitis, and a lot of other illnesses), dietary restrictions are a bit more complicated. Suffice it to say I can eat what my gut decides it can tolerate–– and it’s being pretty picky and changing its mind more than a college freshman deciding on a major. Lately it’s been mainly fish, bread, and potatoes that have been going over okay–– what I like to sacrilegiously call my Jesus diet.

So how do you explain that to friends? Or a restaurant? Or a well-meaning aunt who just wants to cook you dinner? This is where eating out of your own home gets tricky and, often, un-fun. You can’t exactly sit there and go over the entire ingredient list with your server, lest they think you’re on some sort of Gwyneth Paltrow-inspired fad diet and spit in your food for being an immense pain in their ass on a busy night.

Last weekend I went out for a girls night with some friends from college. For everyone else, the prospect of picking a restaurant was probably just a normal group text. But for me, I sat on Yelp for a good hour, trying to come up with bars to suggest that were fun, cheap, and had stuff I could eat. I found a place! And ended up being able to order with minimal special instructions and just enjoy my night (and my tuna) with friends. Planning ahead, while not always the most fun! and spontaneous! thing to do can really help you relax and have a good time while you’re there–– no one wants to spend dinner stressing about whether the thing you just ate is going to make you need to pop a painkiller.

I may even be a repeat offender!

I also make pretty much all of my meals (down to breakfast and snacks, too) ahead of time to make life easier. That way, if I’m headed to an event where I don’t know the menu, I can eat my meal-prepped dinner beforehand or stuff some safe snacks in my purse. I have a reputation for getting hangry, so ending up somewhere with no Crohn’s friendly options is not an option for me (and is not advised for the people around me–– sorry for being mean when I’m hungry, friends!)

Having to plan your food ahead doesn’t have to be all bad, either–– it can make you look like an awesome party guest! I went to a barbecue recently and BYO-salmon for the grill, plus I brought a potato salad. It was great because the potato salad guaranteed there was something there I could eat (see ya, hanger) and it’s also just thoughtful to bring a dish to share when invited to a party. So take that, Crohn’s–– while I may be losing my spontaneous ability to go grab late night poutine after some aggressive dancing to Britney Spears, I am gaining in adulting points. And Barefoot Contessa recipes–– holler at that tarragon potato salad, folks.

Lies My Sister Told Me That Maybe Weren't Lies

My sister and I are very different human beings.

I love attention–– duh, I have a blog. She despises it–– even having people sing to her on her birthday makes her twitchy and weird. She dresses hyper-professionally and should basically buy stock in Ann Taylor Loft, whereas just yesterday my style was referred to as "an adult Lizzie McGuire." I keep up with the Kardashians, but I’m not sure she even knows who Tyga is. We’re two sides of a really weird , genetically similar coin.

This is Heather and Me! Two very different peas in one pod.

One of our biggest differences has always been food. Don’t get me wrong: we both freaking LOVE food. But we’ve always loved it in different ways. I love it in the way where you know where all the late night hot dog stands are. She loves it in the way where she owns a juicer and makes her own pesto.

In spite of our many differences, though, we’re insanely close. She’s the person I talk to most on a daily basis, so naturally when my Crohn’s threw my diet for a loop a couple of months ago, she was the person I turned to. She’s been trying to get me on healthy home cooking for years now, but like anything in my life, I don’t do it until I’m good and damn ready. Like any stubborn, self-respecting millennial should, I reject things I don’t understand. And I didn’t understand kale, or why I would want to eat quinoa when I could have literally any other food.

When I was finally ready to eat right so I could function through a work day without immense stomach pain, it was like my sister had been waiting in the wings to become my real-food fairy godmother. I just so happened to have a visit planned to see her, and since I wasn’t well enough to go adventuring around DC, we used the time to teach me to cook. In a couple of days, Heather took me from “how do you bake a piece of chicken?” to “I’m going to puree some basil to incorporate into my homemade mashed potatoes.”

I even learned to juice, which is something I previously made fun of mercilessly but was actually kind of fun and yielded some delicious carrot ginger situation that gave me a lot of energy I’d been missing on my bland diet.

Does this juice make me look like Gwyneth Paltrow?

After my trip ended, she sent over a parting gift of wisdom–– a cookbook of sustainable seafood recipes. My gut has decided I can’t eat any meat more dense than fish, so this is basically the most thoughtful gift a human could get me right now, short of some new intestines. I felt like a butterfly leaving my little cooking cocoon, and with only moderate help from Heather via text, I made a really impressive arctic char. She may have given me advice and cook times and recipes, but mainly she gave me the confidence that I can actually do this stuff and cook using something other than a microwave.
So should I have listened to my sister four years ago when she said pizza rolls aren’t dinner? Probably. But the point is that sometimes we know what’s good for us but it takes a kick in the ass (like an aggressive Crohn’s flare) to grow up and make us actually act on it. And now I have the satisfaction of knowing I did this for me and my colon, and not because some guy or celebrity or fad diet made me think I needed to change. I’m changing for my health, not to look like Beyonce, which makes it a lot more accessible. It's not how I look, but rather about feeling good enough to make it through the day.

Fun in making new kinds of fish

My hope for you all is that something kicks you in the ass and makes you realize you can actually feel better based on your food intake. Or if it’s not food, whatever it is you’ve been putting off because it seems to hard or tedious. And more than that, my hope is that when you do finally make the decision to make a change, you have an older sister who wants to teach you how to make butternut squash soup. It’s no Big Mac, but it’s shockingly satisfying to eat something you cooked yourself. It’s too soon to tell, but it’s possible that I’m becoming a reformed drive-thru junkie.

My Jeans Are Too Loose, And For This I Am Conflicted.

This morning I put real pants on for the first time in three weeks.

Living that “Crohn’s disease flare and also having the flu” life, I’ve stuck mainly to leggings, if not straight up pajamas for weeks now. I’m lucky in that I work at a web startup where leggings and big sweatshirts are the norm, so I’ve gotten away with stretchy pants that don’t push down on my intestines for far too long now. But today, Chicago weather had other ideas, and I knew real jeans would be necessary.

I went to reach for my loosest pair of jeans as to not push it, and put them on to find they are way looser than normal. I am now, as I type, wearing what was formerly my tightest pair of jeans–– only they’re not anymore. They’re too big.

Now, as just a regular 24-year woman, this whole blog post probably sounds like a really awful humble brag. We get it, Sam. You lost weight. Good for you! Also, maybe go to hell?

But as a chronic illness-having woman, weight loss is a bit more complex, and usually comes as a result of being super sick for a period of time (at present, my diet consists mainly of foods that look like they were already digested by a mama bird). Not that we really need something to complexify body image for women in 2016. We’re living in a whirlwind of messages. Fat shaming is rampant. Skinny shaming is a thing. Love your body, but also maybe go paleo and gluten free or better yet only eat seeds? It’s honestly hard for even 100% healthy women to keep up with all the bullshit.

Point being, weight is complex, and something we should probably stop trying to put into convenient boxes and infographics for Pinterest consumption. Some women are skinny and healthy. Some women are bigger, but still healthy. Some women are gaining weight for reasons beyond their control, like medication or thyroid issues. Some women like myself are losing weight for reasons beyond their control. Am I happy every time someone tells me I look like I’ve lost weight? Of course, I want to be Kendall Jenner as much as the next person. But do you know what’s better than compliments on my thinness? LITERALLY ANYTHING DIPPED IN CHEESE SAUCE.

So maybe what I’m saying is this: if you’re in decent health, cut your body a break. Skinny doesn’t always equal healthy. Keep an eye on things like blood pressure and cholesterol levels, but don’t beat yourself up over that one picture your mom posted on facebook where it kind of looked like you maybe had an extra chin. Chock it up to lighting and enjoy your life and also a hot dog.

Because as a reminder, people who say “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” are liars. Really hungry liars.

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?