Pass me the bread

“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.