Grieving

3 weeks ago my oldest daughter was diagnosed with a gluten & diary intolerance.  The first week was a whirlwind of "THANK YOU, GOD!" as miraculously, the symptoms that had been plaguing the 4-year-old for months, all but disappeared overnight. 

Then last week, my youngest went for a routine check up, and we were gently told "she has food allergies.  You need to get her checked out."  Although I was surprised at those words (we were there for a cough, not a stomach ache!) we were already walking this road with my firstborn, so it was no hardship to add one more to that gluten free, dairy free diet.

In a fit of solidarity, and somewhere deep inside possibly admitting that I was high-risk for gluten sensitivity, I joined the bandwagon of my two girls and decided to go gluten & dairy free for one month as well.  "Just to learn how to cook."

I am definitely dairy intolerant and possibly gluten intolerant as well.  I was not prepared for that.

So, in the space of 3 weeks, we have moved from a "normal" family, to one where gluten and dairy may never again have a place in our kitchen or our stomachs.

And I am not taking that well.

It was one thing to put my oldest on the diet.  She thrived.  She loved it.  She felt better immediately, enjoyed the attention and exclaimed over the foods I gave her.

The next one was harder: she doesn't get why she can't eat what the other kids do.  She's too young to stick up for herself.  Her results are slower in coming, so she doesn't have the immediate cause-effect link to realize her cold is a result of poison in her body.

And I am having the worst time of it.  I think the bread tastes like cardboard.  I'm spending way too much money on everything I can find that says "GF" to restock my now-banned pantry items.  I have a box of treasured recipes that I look at and realize I can never eat again, at least not in the same way.

I had a horrible day yesterday and decided to not bother with cooking, but grab some fast food on the way, and was hit by the reality that fast food is no longer as much of an option as it used to be.

My freezer is no longer stocked with last-minute meals that we can warm up.

My go-to dinners are taboo.

My comfort foods make us sick.

And while I have every support possible, we are living in an age where gluten-free is more and more common, and there are tons of food, blogs and recipes for me to glean from... I am still overwhelmed.

My sister-in-law is a lovely lady, and a naturopathic doctor, and although she's reserved in handing out advice to her family (one too many "witch doctor" comments from her unsupportive brother, perhaps?) she gave me words that I am clinging to right now.

It's normal, she said.  At first you're riding the adrenaline of feeling better and the diet is like medicine - so good for you that you love it.  But the newness wears off, and you find yourself navigating the substitutes you can use, learning how to cook again and the experimental phase of your food relationship where you have some wins and some losses.  You restock your home so that you can have your new "normal."  You are adjusting.  But eventually, you get to the point where the substitutions run out.  When it kicks in that this is forever.  Where the stuff in your pantry that you just shoved to the back have to go into the garbage can for good.  Where you find yourself at Starbucks and realize there is NOTHING you can eat.  Where you decline a dinner invitation because you know the food won't be safe.  Where you're on the road and instead of the smorgasboard, you are limited to the one GF option you don't like.  And it hurts.

And that, she says, is where it's important to grieve.  Yes, grieve.  As in you lost your best friend and she's never coming back.  Grieve your favourite food, the convenience of life before allergies, the social minefield of a new kind of eating.  Cry if you want.  Yell at something.  Get it out, and be okay with that.  Because it's all part of the healing process.

And once you move past the grief, you can find acceptance.  You find your place in community again.  You learn to navigate eating out on your diet , and you learn to make dinner parties potluck style so you can bring your own safe food to eat.  You do get past that, she tells me.  It takes time, just let yourself grieve.

So excuse me for a moment.  I am going to have a good cry while I pack up my recipe box.  I'm overwhelmed today, but one day soon I'll have a new box of favourite recipes that will bring healing to my family.