Gut Reactions

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SEP 4, 2006

CARPE DIET

When I’m hungry, I eat.  I know the sensation may not last long; in fact, there is always a lingering fear that it may never come back.  And sometimes, my appetite stays away for hours, even days.  Food becomes mere medicine, something to be ingested to stay alive, but not the sort of thing that I enjoy. 

Ah, but those other days?  Those days when I really am feeling hungry?  Those days after I’ve just had a dose of Remicade, that miraculous drug for which I am indescribably grateful?  Those days, watch out.  Those days, I am capable of grossing people out with my eating habits.

Several years ago, I read an article about some sort of expedition across Antarctica, the members of which ate a pound of butter, each, every day.  Which sounds horrible, when you think about it.  Presumably, they were putting it on something.  Crackers.  Unintentionally freeze-dried bread.  Penguin fillets.  Old leather mittens.  (Sled dog haunches. . . .)

Whatever the case, whatever the circumstances, though, you must admit: a pound of butter a day is just vile. 

I mean, kinda.  Some days, it just sounds like an appetizer.  Give me a tower of pancakes and a gallon of syrup, tuck a napkin into my collar, and let me at it.  On such days, I feel like that guy who always wins the Nathan’s Famous hotdog-eating contest on the Fourth of July (he consumed 52 in twelve minutes to win this year’s title): Just give me more food.  No, more.  I know I have eaten several servings already.  OK, several dozen.  I’m still hungry.  You see how skinny I am?  You’re doing a good deed here. More pancakes, more chicken, whatever you’ve got.  (But no salad, you sadist!  Are you trying to kill me??)

I’ll admit it: I impress people on these days.  One day last year, a day when my appetite was insatiable, my boss decided to order lunch in for the whole office.  I got a sandwich: turkey, tomato, fresh mozzarella; nothing elaborate.  But what it lacked in complexity it made up for in immensity: this was not a two-fister so much as a two-forklifter.  Dagwood’s jaw would have dropped.  Everyone else’s did, anyway.  And it came with an equally impressive mound of garlic fries. 

As we sat down to eat, I heard, from the other side of this mountain of food, the voice of the biggest guy in the office: “There is no way you’ll be able to eat all of that.”  Everyone else snickered in agreement.  Big sandwich.  Little Doug.  No contest: advantage, sandwich. 

I should have taken bets.  Several minutes later, my work was done: one large meal down the hatch, a clean plate in front of me, and stunned stares from my co-workers, especially Mr. Big Dude.  I thought it improper to excuse myself to find some dessert, since everyone else was still eating.

At other times, the same amount of food would constitute three, four, five meals.  Sometimes, a piece of toast seems like an impossibly large serving. 


The rarity of such occurrences, and the general fragility of my appetite and freakishness of my metabolism, mean that when I am up to the task, I can basically eat whatever I want.  I mean, granted, I avoid vegetables and spicy foods and other items that wreak havoc on my gastrointestinal tract, but there are not a lot of things on my list of forbidden foods, certainly not the high-cholesterol, trans-fat-addled usual suspects.  Bring 'em on.  I never have to worry about gaining too much weight: with Crohn’s, you’re always on a diet, without even trying.  Losing weight is a concern; gaining it is not (this is why I was on the Revolutionary™  New Milkshake and Doughnut Diet for a while).

I understand this may sound appealing.  I mean, not so much the stomach cramping part of Crohn's.  Or the constant I-gotta-go-NOW feeling.  Or the nausea.  Or the fatigue.  But the lack of appetite part, sure.  I mean, every cloud has a silver lining, right?  And every bout of projectile vomiting has a drop of sunshine!  If you look past all those minor details, you know, the pain and misery and all that little stuff, wow, what a life!  You get to eat fatty foods whenever you feel like it, and never gain a pound!  How great is that?!

I read an article by a woman who had Crohn’s – and therefore a small waistline – and who had friends who wished they could have the disease because then they wouldn’t have to worry about their figure.  I’ve had similar experiences: after I spent two weeks in the hospital once, I was at a party and an acquaintance commented that she wished she could lose 10 pounds in a week, as I had. 

Let’s review: “I wish I couldn’t keep food down!  I wish I had to get my nutrients from an IV bag!!  I wish I had part of my colon cut out and couldn’t absorb food as well as a normal person!   I wish I had the world’s most active and foul diarrhea!  I wish I had all of these things and was also given to eat, as my only option, noxious hospital food that no one of sound mind or gut would eat anyway!” 

Wow, you do?  OK!  I’ll trade you my gut for yours!  For keeps, though.  No backsies! 

And while we’re at it, I have a friend in a wheelchair – his legs never get tired, and he has the primo spots reserved for him in every parking lot.  Wouldn’t it be fun to be paraplegic like him?  I bet he’d trade places with you, too!  You would look so good with a set of wheels and a svelte, Crohn’s-afflicted body!  Oh, and while we’re still at it, when I give you my colon, you can have my extra two assholes as a special bonus!

While you think about that deal, I’ll be over there raiding the refrigerator for the some leftover cheesecake. 


I’ll close with a fun-filled jaunt down memory lane back to high school gym class.  No, I didn’t enjoy it, either.  For one thing, there were the occasional (though thankfully short-lived) comments from the other adolescent males – the one type of person that really should be barred from gathering in such a setting, but who, inevitably, are placed together, en masse, in this very petri dish of insecurity and bluster – about my choice of undergarments.  Briefs.  Very unfashionable, I knew, and I desperately wanted to wear boxers, but when there’s always the possibility of not making it to the restroom before the big show starts, if you will, you want something that will keep the show behind the curtains, not dribbling down your thighs or on the floor for all to see, i.e. you care a hell of a lot more about the potential for epic public humiliation than the slightly discomfort in certain other areas protected by said garments, as alluded to in the term “tighty whities.” 

I also had the great fortune to be in a class that was monitored by researchers from the University of Minnesota, apparently to learn about adolescent nutrition and exercise habits and body image and what-have-you.  Their first act was to have us fill out a lengthy survey detailing what sports we participated in, what kinds of food we ate, and all manner of other questions, including queries about our vomiting tendencies.  Now, as it happened, at that time, I had trouble keeping food down sometimes. And I had trouble getting food down in the first place. 

I answered the survey honestly, hoping that there would be some place where I could explain to them the nature of my illness.  But there was no such opportunity, and I’m guessing this skewed their findings: I am fairly certain that there was some researcher at the University of Minnesota who spent a considerable amount of time poring over my survey, examining the fascinating and baffling case of the young man with bulimia.