Sitting on the deck with a small pile of GF reference books, cookbooks and anecdotal biographies, you would forgive me for (wanting to) forgetting our third phase of grief: Anger.

But the anger came. It came to all of us at different moments, in different intensities, directed and even indirected. 

A got mad and age-appropriately resentful at being blocked at every turn. No, he couldn’t have his favourite California roll. Yes, dim sum was dead to him forever. (Really, forever? …FOREVER)  School parties were rife with cross contamination. He asked the impossible question: “Why me?”  Why indeed.

BG’s anger manifested itself in a non-specific general boil-under-the-surface that would lash out at the slightest provocation.  He was (and is) a champion defender of his son through the process, but the anger pervaded.  Irrational spill-over became commonplace and we would all talk each other off the ledge.

A’s little brother was at turns angry on his brother’s behalf, and typical sibling, acted a little shit and declaring how delicious his non-GF “gluten” tasted.  Totally age-appropriate, and thankfully done with.

I got angry at strangers.  I got angry when whole restaurants immediately became dead to us. I got angry when we explained our new GF status and people didn’t take us seriously.  I got angry at the trend-riding bandwagonners who had fucked it up for the legit celiacs in pursuit of a catchphrase diet.  I spat out “low carb” and “paleo” with derision.  I got angry at people who mistakenly believed “a little gluten” was okay.  It isn’t.

We all  bled energy and precious resources going through this phase-a natural but frustratingly un-constructive one.  I, in turn, got angry at all the anger and fell into a circuitous heap.

It was an emotionally exhauting time, to say the least.

Glad we’re past it.  Mostly.