Archive for August, 2012

Remembering Trusty Rusty

I never could understand people who hate owning stuff once it gets old. I know someone for example who bought a beautiful fancy car, drove it for a few years and loved it, but then traded it in. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the car. This person just wanted it off his/her hands before it got old and things started going wrong with it, decreasing its value. It’s a free country, so I have nothing against this person’s decision. But to me, there is a certain special joy in owning something old. I am thinking about this in light of this past weekend when we traded in the minivan we drove for seven years.

     Except for some squeaking and rattling, it drove beautifully. In fact, just a few weeks ago, Mom and I took a trip to Virginia Beach with it. Dad wanted us to fly, fearing that our old car would give out on some treacherous mountain road in West Virginia, but Mom and I much prefer the pleasures of the open road over the inconveniences of airport security, luggage limits and flight delays, not to mention the outrageous costs of airfare and hidden fees that add up these days. There was a little more stress than we anticipated. When we drove through West Virginia, it was raining so hard that at one point, a state trooper was directing cars because part of the road had washed away and if you weren’t familiar with the area, you could drive right over the cliff! But that had nothing to do with the car. The car never once let us down!

     Because of this, part of us thought it would be fun to see how many more miles we could squeeze out of it, but the last time Mom went to get tires, she was told by the mechanic that this was the last time he would recommend putting it on the lift because the underbody had rusted. And on our trip to Virginia, I opened the glove box to get something for my mom and noticed that everything was wet. My sister’s husband said it was likely because some firewall that protects the glove box had also rusted. It was starting to get pretty squeaky and rattly too, so we realized it wouldn’t be too much longer before repairs would cost more than the car was worth. But because of the car’s amazing reliability for its age, even when we did some pretty rugged driving, my parents and I dubbed that car Trusty Rusty.

     Just like my parents, I would never buy a used car (or any other expensive appliance in my case). It is fun to experience appliances that are shiny and new after all, and of course when you buy a used item, you could be buying someone else’s problems too. But when your brand-new appliance gets old, I love how our family savors the joy of driving the old car until it is no longer practical, rather than rushing out to buy a new one.

     Sure, it is fun to touch the clean, shiny unblemished finish of a new car, but on the other hand, you love its shininess so much you cannot relax in it. You feel like you shouldn’t park too close to another car whose driver might fling the door open and put the first ding on the new car. With every new car, we have found ourselves hesitant to eat or drink in it and risk spilling something and putting that first stain in the shiny new carpet or seats. My parents didn’t want Gilbert to ride in our new minivan until they bought a pad for the floor that can be easily washed so that maybe the car won’t smell like him, at least for awhile. But when the car gets to be a Trusty Rusty, you relax and park anywhere. Once it’s starting to rust, a ding is no big deal. And once the car is rusted and dinged on the outside, a little spilled beverage or dog puke incident on the inside is no big deal either.

     Sure, it is fun to play with new features that weren’t available when you bought your last car. But once your car becomes a Trusty Rusty, you forget the frustration of trying to read the manual and figure out how the new features work. On Saturday for example, I took my first spin in our new minivan to the farmer’s market. All was going great until we got to the market, I opened my newfangled automatic door to get out, but when I pushed the button to close it, it just beeped at me and wouldn’t close. So for what seemed like forever, we sat in the car combing the manual, finally figuring out that for safety, it won’t respond if two people are pushing the button at the same time. At the same time I was pushing the button on my door, Dad was pushing it remotely from the front seat. When we couldn’t figure out how to cancel and start over, we collectively sighed and closed it manually, the Trusty Rusty way we had been doing our whole life. Sometimes I think driving around with a Trusty Rusty is less embarrassing than the first few days of a new car when we maybe could have been done buying our produce in the time it took us to figure out how to close the automatic door! But the good new is, since we parked far away from other cars, it is likely no one noticed.

     I love that distinctive new car smell, and it is fun to break in the new seats. But I am never sad when the seats are broken in and the car starts to smell like us; a mingling of Gilbert, and the meals we eventually give in and enjoy on that first roadtrip. When the seats feel unfamiliar and the car hasn’t smelled like us yet, I have always had a strange feeling like I am riding in someone else’s car. But by the time that car becomes a Trusty Rusty, it smells and feels like home.

     It is comforting to drive a car with the latest and greatest safety features, and while there hasn’t been much difference between Trusty Rusty and our new car in that regard, I remember how fun it was when I was younger and we lived on the edge for a while with a not-quite-as-trusty, and probably much rustier old car.

     In 1999 when my grandpa’s health had been failing for awhile and he could not drive anymore, Grandma gave us an old car of his. I think it was a 1984 Eagle, but our family affectionately referred to it as the Ghetto Cruiser. Sorry for the lack of political correctness, but the name was fitting. I don’t know what the car looked like of course, but it must have been pretty embarrassing since my teenage siblings forbid Dad to pick them up from extra curricular activities in it. And Dad said he never feared for his safety driving through bad neighborhoods in it because it blended right in. If by some strange chance someone stole it, it would not have been a hardship because in its condition, it wasn’t worth much.

     On the inside, I guess it was trusty in that it was reliable. I don’t ever remember hearing that it died on the side of the road. But I remember finding it strange when it was time to drive it back with us from Indiana, but both parents insisted I ride home with Mom in the minivan rather than with Dad in the new-to-me car. In fact now that I think about it, I only remember riding in it on short trips to school or the grocery store. I later learned there was a reason for that. I don’t understand car mechanics, but there was something wrong with it where if the car was driven too fast, it would bounce all over the road and it was all Dad could do to control it. He didn’t mind living on the edge and driving it on the freeway to work every day, or by himself to Indiana and back, but it wasn’t a risk he was comfortable taking with his precious children in the back.

     For awhile, Dad was even reluctant to allow Mom to drive it. Eventually, Mom convinced Dad she could handle it and he gave in and let her drive it a little bit. But I will never forget how before handing over the keys, Dad gave Mom a firm warning on the bouncing issue, and the importance of using pliers to turn on the windshield wipers, or else the car could catch fire!

     A couple years later, my parents decided that while the car had served us well as a cheap means of transportation across the city to work for Dad, they were getting tired of putting their lives at risk, so Dad sold it to a work buddy for $500 and bought an inexpensive, safe new car. But I don’t know if it was because I am blind and had no idea how awful the car looked, or just the fact that when you are little, Daddy is cool no matter what he drives, but I loved the distinctive old smell and feel of that car. Of course, being blind means I will never need to buy a car, but the nostalgia and laughs that still come to mind when I think of that car make me think that if I were sighted, I would be the kind of person that would get a thrill out of buying a brand-new car or procuring an old car from a trusted family member, and proudly driving it for twenty years to ghetto cruiser condition and beyond.

To the extent my parents put up with it, I already do this in a figurative sense with other things. I will continue to wear gym shoes, even when they have holes forming in the soles and are giving my feet blisters, until my parents notice and drag me kicking and screaming to the shoe store. Just like with the seats in a new car, I feel like I am wearing shoes meant for someone else until I break them in. Unlike most people, I have always brushed my teeth with my mouth closed. (Maybe I was traumatized from gagging on toothpaste that slid to the back of my throat or something when I was really little.) Anyway, this quirk means that as it is, my toothbrushes get worn out faster than they do for normal people. With my mouth closed, I cannot help chewing on the bristles until they are all bent. But bent bristles never bothered me. I only get a new toothbrush when Mom happens to see it on the counter if I forget to put it away and says “You need a new toothbrush,” as she simultaneously chucks it in to the garbage can, allowing no opportunities for argument. That new toothbrush never feels right the first week or two.

I am still running JAWS 9.0–I think the rest of the blind world is up to version 13 now–and an outdated version of internet explorer on what people these days would call a Trusty Rusty four-year-old computer. I often get pop-up alerts that I would have a better web experience if I upgraded my browser, and some sites I cannot access at all. But I don’t want to upgrade! For one thing, the few times I have attempted upgrades, the upgrade process never went smoothly. I have tried several times to upgrade my brailleNote from keysoft 9.0 to version 9.1 and 9.2, but every time, I am told the installation failed, despite doing EXACTLY what the directions said! The last time I attempted and failed last Sunday, I decided I am not wasting another minute of my life on something that always ends in defeat and frustration. Some of the features available with the upgrade would be awesome, I admit. Supposedly, Keysoft 9.1 could recognize files with the .docx extension and version 9.2 can convert PDF files. It sure would be wonderful to have these features on my BrailleNote rather than having to use JAWS to read these files. But unless I happen to meet someone with a magic touch who can do the upgrade successfully, I would rather be stuck in 2003 with .doc files than waste any more time being frustrated. Who really needs the newfangled features anyway when the old ones work just fine? And with my luck being so bad just upgrading my simple blind-friendly BrailleNote, there is no way I am attempting an upgrade on the much more complex desktop computer. And don’t even get me started on how much I hate Windows 7 which my college upgraded to my senior year. Maybe it has some cool features for sighted people, but for me, it made processes that were once simple, such as opening e-mail attachments and saving documents, much more complicated. Every time I had to work on an assignment at school, I came home with a renewed commitment to take extra good care of my Trusty Rusty, easy-to-use Windows XP, so I can put off upgrading as long as possible.

     But the best example of my loyalty to old appliances is my first treadmill. In eighth grade, I wasn’t very diligent about healthy eating, but I was at least trying to take better care of myself by exercising more regularly. When my parents noticed me doing jumping jacks or marching in place every day, they got me an inexpensive treadmill for Christmas which I loved.

One day the summer after my sophomore year, the part of the emergency stop pin that hooks to me broke. My parents and I had no idea if or how it could be replaced. Mom thought about improvising with duct tape, but I assured her I would be careful and that this wouldn’t be necessary. I kept my word and never once fell. Then one day during my junior year of college, my dad came down to the basement to do something else and came up concerned because he saw the treadmill belt slowly moving even though I wasn’t on it. This wasn’t news to me though. It had been doing that for awhile. I don’t remember exactly when, but one day I remember finishing my workout, unplugging the other end of the pin (there was an actual stop button too, but on that treadmill the pin was easier and safer for me to find), taking my shoes off and then casually plugging the pin back in for the next day as I always had. With my workout done, my guard was down and I wasn’t holding on when the motor started humming and the belt started moving slowly. Fortunately I have excellent reflexes and I grabbed the handle before I fell. I knew if I told my parents that in addition to the broken safety pin, the treadmill had started moving when it wasn’t supposed to be, they would freak out and I didn’t want to get rid of a treadmill that was just starting to have a few quirks but “drove” just fine. So I just quietly adapted. Instead of plugging the pin in to have it ready for the next day right away, I would either drape it over the handle, or hold the pin while I took my shoes off and then plug it back in once I was safely off the treadmill. Either way, I would make sure that at least one hand was holding on to a handlebar at all times until both feet were safely off the treadmill.

On the days I draped it over the handle, I would have to remember to be careful the next day because the belt would sometimes, but not always, jerk to life before I set a speed. Even though the speed lever was on zero, I was always able to stop the belt by calmly pulling down on the lever. Since it didn’t happen every day, the start of each treadmill walk was suspenseful. On the days when the motor started humming before I was ready, I would just hold on tight and pray, then laugh about how much fun unpredictable old appliances are once I was safely walking.

Once Dad found out the treadmill was doing that, he went treadmill shopping right away and both parents gave me a firm “be careful!” as I headed downstairs to work out on the old treadmill until the new one could be delivered.

I have had my “new” treadmill, complete with a new intact safety pin for a year and a half. I don’t mourn the old treadmill because for one thing, I love the new features of this one like the ability to set an incline for even better workouts, and nice big blind-friendly buttons for setting speed so I know exactly what speed I am walking. (If Mom or Dad set my speed on the old treadmill, they could see the speed the lever was set to on a print display, but when I set it myself, it was less scientific. I would just gently push the lever up until I liked the pace.) But more importantly, I have had it long enough that it feels like home now, and it won’t be long until the minivan will too. And the way the years seem to fly by, it won’t be long before my family and I will get to relish the joys and advantages of owning a Trusty Rusty once again.

Some Necessary Perspective on Celiac Disease and Life

Well readers, there is so much more I want to write about eventually regarding my new Celiac Disease diagnosis mentioned in the previous post. Navigating this river has been an interesting journey, complete with wonderful experiences, funny moments, unexpected surprises, and so far only one melt-down. But for this post, I thought I would take a break from feeling sorry for myself to talk about people recently who have found themselves in a sandbar so awful that it almost makes me ashamed to be mournful about my Celiac diagnosis. There are in fact things that are much, much worse. Like going out for what you anticipate to be a fun date, the midnight opening of another Batman movie, never imagining that you or your partner wouldn’t leave that theater alive. Or being a family just going to their usual worship service on a peaceful Sunday, perhaps thinking that after worship, they would enjoy dinner on the grill or a walk in a park, but instead finding themselves in a hospital in critical condition, or planning a funeral for the senseless death of a loved one.

     The movie theater shooting in Aurora, Colorado happened two days after my Celiac diagnosis. Mom had Good Morning America on and told me about it when I came downstairs, but I was so self-absorbed in getting used to eating gluten-free bagels which have a different texture than “regular” bagels and realizing once more that this whole Celiac thing wasn’t a dream–it was my reality, for the rest of my life–that I didn’t grasp the magnitude of this shooting until the evening news. As I was watching the evening news, I decided that I would make it a point to keep things in perspective and ensure that my conscience never got wrapped up in such trivial roadblocks, which Celiac really is in the grand scheme of life. I never imagined I would have to put this in to practice so soon, that another senseless shooting would hit so close to home (Oak Creek is just a half hour drive from where I live), or that in America in the year 2012, people were still being targeted because of their religion. But from that day forward, I have found myself savoring the not-quite-as-tasty gluten-free bread when I realized that just across town, there were nine families who would likely give anything for a life where Celiac Disease was their only source of hardship.

     It is only by the grace of God that you or I have never, and hopefully will never face such a tragic, senseless sandbar. My mom and I had just gotten back from worship ourselves when we heard about the shooting at the Sikh Temple. As if there was no doubt that our worship would be peaceful and safe and we would get home alive, we made plans that morning to throw sausages and vegetables on the grill and enjoy a beautiful Sunday at home as a family. Those Sikh families across town were probably just as casual as we were in making Sunday afternoon plans. In America, houses of worship are sacred and safe, after all. At our church, nothing happened and we returned home as always and put our sausages on the grill as we watched the local news coverage. But just across town, a whole faith community never got to enjoy that Sunday afternoon, and six families will never get another Sunday afternoon with their loved ones again. The Sikh people may speak a different language and have different beliefs, but when you get right down to it, they are no different than Christians. Their faith teaches love, compassion, service to those in need, virtues that Christianity emphasizes as well. They just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What’s to say next time, it won’t be us?

     These recent shootings also reminded me of an incident in college I had put out of my mind but will never forget. One day in the spring semester of my freshman year of college, I walked in to another Introduction to News Writing class, as I had done every Monday and Thursday at 4:00 all semester. Nothing had ever happened in all my years of school, so I am sure as I waited for the professor to start class, my mind was wandering to what we would have for dinner that evening and what evening homework I needed to do. But that day, a troubled student got in to an argument with the professor in front of the class. Since she was causing a scene and a guest speaker was expected shortly, the student was asked to wait until after class to continue the argument. I didn’t hear it because I didn’t sit near the student, but the next time our class met, campus security was standing outside the door. Another student sitting near this troubled student reported to the professor that this student had muttered under their breath, “this is how things like Virginia Tech happen.”

     Fortunately, another Virginia Tech didn’t happen in that news writing class. I don’t know how the situation was ultimately resolved with this student. This student never came to class again, nor have I heard anything about this student since. But even though nothing happened, it was an incident I will never forget because something could have. It is so easy to think that nothing could ever happen at my warm friendly college/church/theater/community, but unfortunately as long as there are guns everywhere and troubled people in the world not getting the help they need, Virginia Tech/the Sikh Temple/the Aurora, Colorado theater shootings could happen anywhere.

     As is always the case, time will pass, and as it does, the memory of these recent shootings will fade, at least for those of us who don’t know any of the victims. But I hope that say, a year from now if I find myself stuck in a restaurant with no gluten-free options, that instead of sobbing because I am tired and hungry and the restaurant isn’t accommodating, I might think back to these shootings, hug any loved ones at the table with me and realize there are much worse things to be sobbing about.

River Gets Rough Already

Well readers, just one week after college graduation, a time when I saw no hints of storms on the horizon, the river called life hit an unexpected rough patch.

     My master plan had gone off perfectly so far. The graduation festivities were beautiful. The delicious leftovers were almost gone and Mom and I had driven Granny safely back home to Indiana. All that was left was some blood tests ordered by my primary physician and my pediatric endocrinologist. The plan was that the doctors would quickly glance over my blood tests and then send me on my merry way in to the adult world with a clean bill of health. My pituitary problems that resulted from my brain tumor were well-managed, and although I hadn’t been making the healthiest eating choices amidst the stress of finishing college, I was still thin and even amidst stress, made far healthier choices than I did in high school. Given that, and just the fact that every other facet of my master plan had gone off without a hitch, I just didn’t expect this plan to go off script. But it did.

     So on Wednesday May 23, just as I was finishing my breakfast and settling in to another lazy worry-free day, the phone rang. It was my physician who noticed that my liver enzymes were slightly elevated, and that I was anemic. I wasn’t surprised or concerned about the anemia. The summer after second grade when I had a big growth spurt and basically wouldn’t eat anything healthy, I became severely anemic to the point where I could barely function. I was sleepy all the time, had no appetite and when I started third grade, I was so skinny it frightened the teachers. With some medication adjustments and force-feeding, I returned to a healthy weight and felt well again. I don’t remember hearing anything more about my iron levels for years. Maybe it wasn’t tested or maybe it was tested and reported on my medical charts, but since I felt well and was gradually eating a much more balanced diet by middle school, nobody felt it was worth mentioning to me. Then in the fall of my sophomore year of college, the glands in my neck swelled up and got really painful seemingly overnight which had never happened to me before, so my parents wanted to get me to the doctor right away. But my primary physician wasn’t available, so the receptionist set me up with a different doctor in the same building. This doctor was amazingly thorough. In addition to the usual look at my throat and feeling of my glands, he also ordered a blood test to check for Mono, and iron I guess too, because he called me personally later that afternoon and told me I was mildly anemic. Like I said, by then I was feeling great and eating a very healthy diet, so I just made an effort to eat more high-iron foods like beef and spinach and didn’t think anything of it. Maybe I was just prone to being a little anemic.

     But elevated liver enzymes? That was a new one. How could I have liver problems? I tried one sip of whine, at my brother’s insistence shortly after my 21st birthday, but it was so disgusting I spit most of it out. I don’t abuse painkillers either. Those were the only things I knew of that can cause liver problems. In a panic, Mom and I consulted the internet, but couldn’t find anything reliable or applicable to me so we decided it would be better to wait for the results of some more detailed bloodwork and a liver ultrasound ordered by the doctor. So Mom immediately scheduled an ultrasound for June 6, and took me in for the additional tests.

     Then like clockwork on June 5, just after finishing breakfast, the phone rang again.

     “Your blood results show indications of Celiac disease,” the doctor said, “It is a disease where your body cannot tolerate gluten, which just means you will have to give up wheat.”

     She is a young and very compassionate doctor, and perhaps in an effort to soften the blow, she said “There are lots of foods that are gluten-free. I think even Snickers bars are gluten-free.” I laughed politely, because I do love snickers bars, but still my heart sank, and I apologize if it sounds overly dramatic, but I will be honest and say I felt my gluten abundant life flash before my eyes. What would become of our Christmas cookies, my dad’s quiche, my mom’s family-famous fluffy waffles, my double-layer chocolate birthday cake I look forward to all year, our Friday night pizzas, our comforting lunches of grilled cheese sandwiches or macaroni and cheese?

     Mom and I had decided to have this conversation on speaker phone, and I will always carry with me the image of us sitting side by side on the couch with the phone between us. When she saw my expression fall, she tapped me on the shoulder and whispered enthusiastically “that’ll be so easy!”

     “Yeah right,” I wanted to say, “don’t you realize how central a role bread products play in our family?”

     “I worked with a lady who was gluten-free, and she brought the most fabulous cakes to work,” Mom said when she got off the phone.

     “That’s great. But I cannot live on Snickers bars and cake. What are we going to do for actual meals?”

     “There are all kinds of gluten-free breads and pastas made with other kinds of flour like rice and corn. And, some of your favorite meals like steak and baked potatoes? Naturally gluten-free!”

     This is true. In my shock and panic, I overreacted and interpreted the diagnosis to mean I would never be able to eat anything delicious again, but when I found out I could still eat steak, a baked potato loaded with butter, sour cream, salt and pepper or even my dad’s amazing spicy spaghetti sauce over gluten-free noodles, I started to feel better. Maybe Mom was right and it would be easy.

     And then I found some more information on websites for Mayo Clinic and the Celiac Foundation that had my heart sinking again. To start with, going gluten-free wasn’t as simple as just giving up the obvious wheat products like bread and pasta. Other grains like barley and rye also contain gluten, and products like sauces and salad dressings that don’t taste as if they would have gluten in them could be thickened with wheat. Some companies are transparent about gluten in their products, but others disguise it. In a Betty Crocker book on how to get started with a gluten-free diet, there is a huge list of unpronounceable additives that contain gluten. But the real kicker was when I learned that even trace amounts of gluten can be harmful, so people with Celiac even have to watch out for cross-contamination, meaning that if even a crumb of wheat touches a gluten-free item, it is no longer safe for people with Celiac to eat. In practical terms, this means that those warnings on food packages for items which seem like they would be gluten-free like Quaker oats which say “processed in a facility that also processes wheat,” must also be avoided by people with Celiac. And gone would be the days when I could just walk in to a restaurant and order anything I wanted. Fortunately, more and more restaurants offer gluten-free options these days, but people with Celiac are advised not to blindly trust even these items, because if the staff in the kitchen handles your chicken with the same gloves used to prepare bread items, your gluten-free meal has now been contaminated. And let’s say a restaurant says their caesar salad is gluten-free so long as you order it with no croutons. If the restaurant makes a mistake and brings your salad with croutons on top, people with Celiac cannot just pick off the croutons because it is impossible to remove every last trace of crouton crumbs. People with Celiac are supposed to send the salad back and ask for a fresh salad without croutons. Since customers aren’t allowed back in the kitchen to oversee preparation, people with Celiac are supposed to ask to speak with the manager or chef, inform them that they have Celiac and explain how food must be prepared. Actually, the most polite thing to do is plan ahead and call the restaurant to give them a heads up and find out if they can accommodate you, and try to go to the restaurant at a slower time of day.

     I wanted to cry as it occurred to me that (a) our family, especially my dad and grandma, loves to go out to eat on weekends, the busiest time; (b) sometimes we plan ahead, but other times, my parents like to just drive around and pick new places to try spur of the moment; (c) most of our family  likes to keep our order simple, and we get all embarrassed just when my sister with no dietary restrictions makes a complicated order with substitutes and everything. Dietary restrictions which would require the manager coming out to talk to me would be far worse. And (d), we have all watched too many of those “dirty secrets of restaurants” shows where waiters admit spitting in people’s food when they send it back, and as a result, we never, ever, send food back. Well, my dad has once or twice, but when he did, I remember us all getting nervous and giving him a “what are you thinking?” lecture. And let’s say I ever got in a situation where a restaurant doesn’t like dogs but has to grudgingly serve Gilbert and me because of the ADA laws, AND at the same restaurant I also have to send back a contaminated salad. That could be the perfect recipe for spit (or worse) in my food.

     Did I also mention that this disease is about more than just a little stomach upset (which I never had by the way)? I had more subtle symptoms like frequent headaches and fatigue which I always overlooked. In people with Celiac, gluten destroys the villi which are the carpet-like fibers in the small intestine that absorb nutrients from the food we eat. The only treatment is a gluten-free diet for life. Left untreated, Celiac can lead to liver damage (which I was just beginning to have), and scarier stuff like cancer. If you follow a strict gluten-free diet for life, all sources said the small intestine would heal, but if you stray, even on Christmas, your birthday, your wedding day, damage begins again. I have even heard that after being gluten-free, the body overreacts to gluten, so one speck of gluten can set the healing back three months or more. I remember logging off the internet and coming out of my room somberly for a drink of water, sure that the carefree life I had been so looking forward to after graduation would be hellish now.

     But unbeknownst to me, while I was upstairs researching with my computer, Mom was downstairs doing research of her own. That’s when she found out that Celiac runs in families! I won’t get in to the details, but she said that her and Dad, my siblings and two of my aunts had the classic symptoms. Even if they got tested and didn’t officially have Celiac, my parents both promised they would go gluten-free with me because even if gluten hasn’t caused damage for them, they are definitely sensitive to it. And there was a high probability that other members of the family would test positive for Celiac as well, so by us going gluten-free, we could be a positive influence for the rest of the family. Even if they weren’t sensitive, it warmed my heart when they said they would go gluten-free anyway because we are a family and families suffer together. But since they are sensitive, that was a moot point. Although it didn’t eliminate my anxiety about future social situations, not by a long shot, you cannot imagine the euphoria of finding out you won’t be navigating these rough uncharted waters alone.

     Even so, I wasn’t eager to go gluten-free immediately. The good news was the doctor said I should still enjoy my glorious gluten (well, those weren’t her exact words but that’s how I interpreted them), until I saw a gastroenterologist who knew more about celiac and could do a more definitive test, a biopsy of my small intestine, the only way to diagnose Celiac with absolute certainty.

     The soonest my mom could get me in to a specialist was July 18, but I thought I might still be able to eat gluten even after that because the biopsy is a procedure that involves sedation, not like a blood test that can be done same-day. (If I had been allowed to schedule the appointment, I would have gone with the doctor who couldn’t see me until September). But instead of the carefree blogging I had intended to do, I found myself spending the next six weeks obsessively reading up on Celiac disease, perusing blogs and Facebook pages for information and coping advice, and of course saying yes to gluten every chance I got. I am sure I gained weight those six weeks as I loaded up on ice cream cones, ravioli, Papa Murphy’s pizza (at my insistence even when it was way too hot to be using the oven), as well as items I loved but wasn’t sure about like my favorite caesar salad dressing and store bought guacamole. In my paranoia, I was sure I would find out that everything I loved had gluten lurking in it.

     All too soon, it was July 18, and I had a foreboding feeling that I was sitting down to my last piece of peanut butter toast made with oat nut bread, and I was right.

     The doctor’s first words when she entered the exam room were “you definitely have Celiac. We looked at your blood tests and there is no question.” I guess there is some antibody that my physician didn’t know as much about that confirms Celiac if it is elevated and my levels were off the charts. She still wanted to do a biopsy to see how much damage had been done, but when we asked if we should wait and have the biopsy before going gluten-free, she basically said “are you crazy? No, you should start going gluten-free now.”

     At my insistence, Mom and I went to Chipotle after the doctor’s appointment where for my last gluten meal, I ordered one of their amazing burritos, made on a flour tortilla of course. It was the one thing I hadn’t had the chance to get one more time in that six-week period. When we got home, I savored a Blue Bunny ice cream cone, and dug out one more of my sister’s fantastic chocolate chip cookies which she made for my graduation. And then it was time to resign myself to the necessity of leaving the familiar river I loved and accept the newer, healthier route.