You say Tomato, I say Boo-Hoo

My mother tells me she craved and ate a toasted tomato sandwich while she was in labour with me. Which explains a lot.

I never could convince my husband that a tomato sandwich qualifies as a meal. Or even as a sandwich, for that matter. He figures tomato slices are merely a nice bonus to the required meat, cheese, pickle, and perhaps lettuce.

But this time of year, I could live on toasted tomato sandwiches…if only I could. If only I hadn’t developed what we believe is Interstitial Cystitis (a hard-to-diagnose chronic condition I wrote about last winter) which causes serious pain if I eat tomatoes (and a long list of other things containing acid or potassium or caffeine or alcohol or hot spices or too much salt).

In May, I enjoyed an exceptionally good month with no pain and lots of energy. I believed God had healed me. I even planted tomatoes, certain I’d be enjoying them in August. Alas, the pain returned in June (and yes, this is challenging my faith but I’ll write about that another time) and now I must be more hyper-vigilant than ever about what goes into this body. Tomatoes trigger far more grief than all their deliciousness is worth.

It kinda breaks my heart. If I could remove one food from my long verboten list, I’d pick tomatoes. (Even before chocolate, which is saying a lot!) It’s just that eliminating tomatoes eliminates so many of our all-time favorite meals: spaghetti, lasagna, pizza, chili, tacos, and most of the soups I used to make. I hardly know how to cook without tomatoes!

But thanks to my optimistic planting spree last spring, I’m now picking gorgeous red tomatoes, slicing them for hubby, and giving them away daily. It might seem stupid to line them up on my windowsill where I can only lust for them while I wash dishes, but it’s a short season and I’ll survive it. Doesn’t mean I can’t throw a little pity party now and then, though. Is once a day too often?

I’m not sure what’s more difficult: the sadness of not being able to eat what others around me can eat, or the guilt induced by feeling sorry for myself. The dialogue between my whiney self and my conscience sounds like this:

Conscience: The nerve! How dare you feel sorry for yourself when there is such an abundance of food you can eat? When food is so readily available? When you have a job to pay for that food? When you own a car to bring it home in, a fridge to store it in, and a stove to cook it on? 

Whiney: I know, I know. But—

Conscience: You should be thankful, thankful, thankful. 

Whiney: I am! But still. It sucks. 

Conscience: Zip it, ya big baby. 

Whiney: You’re right. I’m scum. Scummier than scum.

Can you relate? Are there good, healthy things you can’t enjoy that make life seem stinking unfair? And when you allow it to bum you out, does your conscience scold you? Have you come to terms with it? How do you live with it, or should I say, without it? I’d love to hear from you.

When Life Hands You Lemons....

I no longer eat lemons. No lemon juice, lemonade, lemon pie, lemon bars, or lemon tea.

Or other citrus fruits.

Or tomatoes, soy, pickles, or chocolate. 

They caused me pain for over a year, and I didn’t know it. Oh, I knew I was in pain. I just didn’t know why and never imagined such delicious and nutritious things could be the culprits.

No, it’s not allergies.

I want to educate you today about a chronic condition called Interstitial Cystitis, or I.C. Don’t feel bad, I had never heard of it either. If you’ve ever suffered a urinary tract infection, you know how painful they can be. I.C. feels much the same, except no infection exists and the pain flares up and down on a daily basis without ever fully going away. I.C. is often misdiagnosed as repeated infection, yet no bacteria are present. In a nutshell, it means the lining of your bladder is damaged and when it comes into contact with acidic urine, it becomes inflamed and painful—much like pouring lemon juice onto an open cut. 

It’s one of those conditions that won’t kill you but sometimes you wish it would because it’s so horrible to live with. You don’t look sick, but sometimes you wish you did just for some sympathy. And it’s a lot more common than you’d think because, let’s face it, who wants to talk about their bladder? 

We greet each other with “how are you?” And the normal response is, “fine.” Occasionally, depending who’s asking or how much time we have, we might speak openly about whatever battle we’re fighting on any given day. It’s one thing to admit your arthritis is acting up or you have a headache or cold. But no one ever answers with “My pelvis hurts and I don’t know why.” At least not in my experience. 

So people suffer in silence, running from one health care provider to the next, when they could be receiving a lot of support from others who are learning to manage this supposedly incurable condition. It boils down to raising the pH level of your urine by eliminating acidic foods and swallowing baking soda in water.

I don’t advocate self-diagnosis and I am definitely not playing doctor. I don’t know for certain whether I have I.C. because I have yet to be tested and grew tired of waiting. Here’s what I do know: when I began treating myself for it, my pain went away. Judge me if you want.

I merely hope to spread the word that there is help, and much of it may be in your own kitchen. If it weren’t for a Facebook friend 2000 kilometers away having the courage to mention her own battle with I.C., it would have taken me even longer to realize I could do much for myself, even without a diagnosis. Prior to my connecting with her, it all sounded too complicated and overwhelming. I desperately wanted my problem to be something else, something with a simpler, permanent fix.

Many similar issues develop in our bodies and too often people suffer alone for years. Maybe we should be less afraid to speak up. If I can help one other person by writing about Interstitial Cystitis, it will be worth the effort it took to muster the guts to hit “publish” on this post.

You can learn more about I.C. HERE.