“What
do you want to eat?” it’s a common question, but for me these are six of the
scariest words in the English language. I have Interstitial Cystitis (IC), a
chronic bladder disease where the symptoms are most similar to a urinary tract
infection that never goes away. IC is a disease best controlled by extensive
diet modifications. Because of my illness, I haven’t eaten citrus fruit in over
three years. Imagine that, three years without an orange. I can’t have coffee,
tea, chocolate, or alcohol. My salads are dressing free and I avoid sauces and
spices with almost religious fervor. I spent the first year of my illness
living on a diet of toast, as I slowly learned which foods were safe and which
foods would land in me in the doctor’s office. So when my boyfriend asks me
where I want to eat or what food I am in the mood for, I am often struck dumb
with terror and paralyzed with shame. I know IC isn’t my fault and that I
haven’t done anything wrong. But I feel bad that he is limited to the diners,
burger joints, and pho restaurants where I feel safe. “Oh, god,” I think to
myself, “nobody else should have to live a life this devoid of flavor”
Its
not just dating that is difficult with the IC diet; it is every social
occasion. American’s love food, we celebrate with food, we mourn with food, and
we bond over a cup of coffee or drinks at the bar. At a recent party with
friends, the dining room table was filled with chocolate swirl cheesecake, a
collection of meaty sauce laden sandwiches, pigs in a blanket, and French bread
with cheese. As I nibbled my dry bread and cheese, I tried to look at the
bright side. At least I wouldn’t gain any weight from the cheesecake. I am very
good at looking at the bright side. Because I don’t drink I am always the
designated driver, which often means I am the only one who can remember
everything that happened in an evening. Still, despite my attempts to see the
silver lining I usually feel like I am standing under a perpetual rain cloud.
It sucks to be the only girl at the bar nursing a glass of cold water, while
friends toast with champagne cocktails or do shots of tequila. Bartender’s give
me dirty looks for wasting their time and waitresses sigh dramatically when I
pepper them with questions about what ingredients go into their food. A simple
occasion like a family dinner or a potluck, is a minefield that must be
negotiated with the delicacy of a bomb diffuser. I am always faced with the
same choice: over share and explain my disease or try and obfuscate my reasons
under a blanket of polite excuses. It’s usually better just to eat first and
decline everything but the safest foods. I’ve toyed with Nan in Indian
restaurants, moved plain white
rice and broccoli around my plate in late night Chinese diners, and watched
other’s eat countless homemade recipes while I nibble the bread.
I was raised to eat the food people gave me. When I was eight my lunch box had a sticker that said, “Food is Good.” All food, any food, when you are hungry is good, its not the time to be picky. These
days I am hungry all the time. But it’s not food I am hungry for, but flavor. Its
not that I don’t eat enough, I do. I eat oatmeal, salmon salads, pho, burgers,
and French toast. But my life lacks flavor and more importantly it lacks
freedom. So what do I what do I want to eat? I want to eat everything. Now,
please pass me the bread.
