Amy Knebel
Engaging writing, polished editing… and wit
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I’m shaking off the cobwebs from a little over two month’s time lacking a creative rhythm while treading residential and emotional water…
After realizing the suburbs weren’t for us and that 2 people and a dog didn’t need much space, we decided to sell our home in Arlington and move back into DC. Our house was under contract less than a week after we went on the market (yo, full asking, bitches!), so we went into scramble mode to find a place in our targeted DC neighborhood. When you are looking for a place at the same time hordes of summer interns are also hunting for digs, you have to treat house hunting like you’re on a survival trip with Bear Grylls. For a few weeks, I armed myself with Lou Lou’s doggy resume and copies of our credit report and transformed into the pushiest version of myself. I’m happy to report that after a lot of legwork and checkbook waving, we are happily ensconced on Capitol Hill in a great rental row house that will allow us the time to find a similar place to renovate to our likings.
For me, moving is no longer an emotionally stressful event like it is for some people. We have scaled down quite a bit and are pretty mobile for people who have a dog with her own closet. Instead, moving has become an annoying speedbump in getting to the next place I want to be. So we move fast-and-furious-style: packers come one day, the movers come the next and the new place is unpacked and organized within 2 days after the move. No drama, just gettin’ it done so we can get on with life. Now, that kind of sequence requires a suspension of life as we know it, but John and I have perfected our roles over many a move these past 11 years, so we don’t mess with what works. Of course all of this is happening during baseball season, so for the most part I am flying solo while my husband has to log some obscene hours at the ballpark (he works in the Washington Nationals front office). I can’t complain about that, because in the words of Sammy Sosa, “Baseball been very, very good to me.” What does suffer, unfortunately, is the undivided time I crave to be able to write well. I managed to eke out one article during this time and I’m glad I had the stones to tell my editor that I couldn’t take on more without quality suffering.
In the midst of the move and real estate pain-in-the-ass-back and forth of selling a home, we had 2 big health scares with Lou Lou. The first was a lump on her lip that turned out to be an adenocarcinoma. Yep, she had a cancerous tumor on her lip. She underwent surgery to remove the lump and had follow-up care with a veterinary oncologist. Good news: they got it all and her body/lymph node scans are clear. While this was happening (as if doggy cancer isn’t scary enough), she came up lame in her left hind leg. Diagnosis: partial CCL tear. For you non-dog people, that’s pretty much the doggy equivalent of a partial ACL tear in humans. Strict exercise restrictions and drugs came with the news, which could have been worse (a full tear would have meant surgery). So we dodged the bullet twice, but not without it taking a toll on me.
The fear I felt while caring for Lou Lou during these trips back and forth to numerous veterinarians was the worst kind of fear I’ve ever felt. I won’t go into much detail here (check Dog Mom Diaries soon for the full account), but suffice it to say that the sheer powerlessness of it all added onto the the thought of losing her to cancer really rocked me. I was already pissy and tired from the move and this all just sent me into a worry-cave. Some people find that writing their way through something difficult is cathartic. Not me. When the shit hits the fan, I get quiet and pull back. I tend to focus on the core things that really matter, so from Lou Lou’s lip surgery until she was able to come off exercise restriction, I tended to the basics. Feed and care for dog, self and spouse. Ignore they grey roots and the dog hair accumulated on every horizontal (and vertical!) surface. Drop the heavy reading and pick up an US magazine. Have a glass of wine and some Mc Donald’s fries. Whine a little bit on Facebook. Cry in the shower so the dog doesn’t get stressed from seeing you be an ugly crier. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Considering where I felt we were a few months ago, I think Drake says it best:
“Started from the bottom, now we here…started from the bottom, now my whole team fucking here.”
I have my dog, my husband, my family and my friends. Deep breath. The reset button gets pressed…now.
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Think about what you had to eat today. Then subtract everything you ate that had gluten, soy, dairy, corn, nuts, seeds, grains, nighshades, beans, legumes and eggs. What are you left with? Meat, vegetables and fruit.
Sigh. The title of this post, Twigs and Kombucha, pretty much sums up what I’ve felt like I’ve been eating for the past few months. After my October diagnosis with Hashimoto’s, I’ve been playing only one numbers game, and the goal is to get my TPO antibody numbers down.
Most doctors agree that they key to Hashi’s is managing your autoimmune response through diet. Lucky me. BRB, going to buy lottery tickets.
First, my doctor came for gluten. Why gluten? In a nutshell, the gliadin protein in gluten closely resembles the proteins that make up thyroid tissue. When Hashi’s patients ingest gluten, the body thinks it has more proteins to attack, so your body goes on the defensive and your antibodies go up. So I gave up gluten (and giving it up for Hashi’s means 100% adherence) and my numbers dropped, but not nearly enough for Doc’s liking.
So then my doctor came for everything else delicious, including wine. This meant the next step was the AIP diet or Autoimmune Protocol (for those of you who still get to eat fried Twinkies and drink beer). The goal of the AIP diet is to eliminate foods that are inflammatory and damaging to the gut so the body’s immune system has time to rest and heal. Basically, it’s taking the Paleo diet and making it even more strict. On the list of approved foods are meat (muscle and organ-good thing I like pate!), non-nightshade vegetables, 2 servings (max) fruit a day and fermented foods like sauerkraut, kimchi and kombucha. To reiterate, you can’t have ANY of the following until it’s time for you to reintroduce foods, one at a time, to see if you can tolerate them: gluten, soy, dairy, corn, nuts, seeds, grains, nightshades, beans, legumes and eggs. Nightshades are white potatoes, tomatoes and all peppers, FYI. So salsa, BLT’s and tater tots are out as well.
Being on such a strict diet has resulted in the following:
I never knew how much I loved wine until I couldn’t have it. Wait, that’s a lie. I am fully aware of how much I love wine. After almost two months, my numbers dropped enough so that my doctor let me choose one thing to reintroduce. I chose wine. (DUH!) She said once a week and in moderation. We have different understandings of the concept.
No one gets as excited as I do when my favorite brand of kombucha is on sale. I thought I was going to wet my pants in Safeway the other day when they were 2 for $5. When it comes to brewing my own, I am trying to muster up enough bravery to overcome my fears of exploding glass and dying in my own kitchen as a result of tea poisoning. Wouldn’t that be a classic headline; “Native Southerner Poisons Self with Tea.” Plus you have to deal with the scoby, which looks like slime. I’m a little scared of the scoby.
The dog has developed a taste for certain veggies, and her counter-surfing is in championship competition shape. To wit: she’s insane over spaghetti squash. I had one split and cooling on the counter and made the mistake of going to the bathroom. I hear a thud and exit the loo to discover Lou Lou going to town on a spaghetti squash. You don’t even want to know what her farts smelled like that night.
I cook ALL THE DAMN TIME. All. The. Damn. Time. There is nothing that comes out of a box or package that is AIP compliant, so I live in my own Groundhog Day of going to several markets and bonding with my kitchen.
Plus, I have conversations like this:
Me: I want Aunt Henrietta’s homemade pimento cheese on white bread with some plain Lay’s potato chips.
John: YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY OF THOSE THINGS!!!! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING???!!!
Me: I’m thinking I’m fucking hungry.
Or
Me: I can’t have gluten, so I’ll have the grilled fish, plain, no seasoning or butter and the steamed veggies, no seasoning and no butter and no rice.
Waiter: So do you want your rice on the side?
Me: I can’t eat rice, any grains or gluten.
Waiter: So do you want mac and cheese instead?
Me: Um, no thank you. I think I’ll be so totally full from the fish and vegetables. Just no room. Thanks honey. (smizes, throws shade)
Or
Me: So what did my LRA/ELISA test say?
Dr.: Well, you can’t have… (starts reading list)…chicken eggs, broccoli or tapioca either.
Me: (whining) You can’t take away a vegetable! What am I going to eat?!!!
Dr.: Asparagus, anything else green. And you can reintroduce duck eggs and see if you have a reaction. Alright, how much wine did you have last week?
Me: Two glasses, I swear.
What’s the silver lining to this culinary cloud? It turns out you really are what you eat. My TPO numbers are going down, and I’ve never felt better. So maybe my doc does know what she’s doing. Let’s just hope that maybe, just maybe some pimento cheese is in my future.