We are coming up on our one-year anniversary of our endoscopy.   There’s very little drama now:  we’ve got this.  But we still have to jump through the GP visit hoops, and the Pediatrician hoops, and the GI Clinic hoops, and the blood monitoring every six months and and and…….

Flash back to this week and our visit to our GP.  He is a great guy.  He has seen me since I met my husband, handed me off to capable (sort-of, but that’s another story) OB-GYN’s and two babies later.  He is ten years older than us, and grounded in sports medicine.  He is wonderful.  He is a comfortable GP based in West Vancouver with a practice in Yaletown.  You get the picture.

When I first brought our issues to him, he was dismissive and textbook at best.  He did his job, just didn’t listen.  He put down A’s gastric issues to lactose, and told us to cut out milk.  What he didn’t account for was THIS parent’s ability to go beyond the obvious and question the underlying stuff.  WHY was he suddenly lactose intolerant? WHY was he so moody and pimply and grumpy and not HIM?  This was not my child.

After two nights of midnight tummy troubles, I took A to our local clinic.  We saw the on-call Doctor, and he looked at A and looked at me, and asked a bunch of questions, and ordered a bunch of tests.

Getting the tests back, my clinic Doctor looked at me and said “Dollars for doughnuts, this kid has Celiac disease, but we need to do further tests.  I’m 99% certain.  Now it’s up to your GP.”

Damn.

He was right.  We pursued the diagnosis, went back to the GP, waited patiently for our endoscopy, got our positive endoscopy, and pursued a lifestyle we were suspect of all along.

Flash-forward to this week and our meeting with our GP.  He had said that he wanted to follow us alongside the Pediatrician and monitor the GI clinic.  Fine.  Fair.  I brought him the exhaustive blood test from the GI clinic.  I explained that I was happy with his results, but that his iron and Vitamin D were a tad on the low side.  I now knew how to read blood test results.  I asked him if we needed to up his iron or D.  I was concerned about his absorption rate.

And then he looked at me and offered what he could best do:  an apology, of sorts.

He said:  “You know, we aren’t trained to look for these sorts of things:  we look at your symptoms and start from the beginning…” and petered off.  He acknowledged that the Pediatrician was the best individual for the job (as he had clinic privileges at Children’s and a direct line to the GI clinic) and that he wanted to follow A in his journey, but that he was not necessarily equipped to handle it.

Now, I can accept his humanity.  Now I can accept him with his inadequate diagnoses and lack of  blood tests, and my frustration at me educating a health care provider.  Now I can show him what to look for, and what to test for.  Now I can sit by and accept his platitudes to my son about becoming an advocate for the cause in the face of educating the greater public.

Now.

We have this, this new lifestyle.  We are in the 2.0 version of this auto-immune disease.  We continue to educate family that this is not a “phase”, that he will not grow out of it like pimples or bad hair cuts or otherwise.  That this is a life issue – not a choice, but a style.

Now.

I accept his apology, in all of it’s glaring inadequacies and inability to account for our voices.

Now.

We met seventeen years ago: an unlikely couple from vastly different backgrounds. We fell in love. Hard. He brought me here, 16.5 years ago to propose we start a life together: a life full of fun, laughter, anger, heartache, and tears. We rode out the bumps, tried our best to work through the anger, and celebrated the victories that came with bearing and raising two small children while building a business together.

And here we are.

Seventeen years later, we are back for a stolen sixteen hours on the heels of Mother’s day to remind each other why we are here: why we stay.

It’s easy to get caught up in the minutae of the day to day, easy to forget to pause and take a moment to check in with your partner, check in with yourself and say “This is why we take the sour with the sweet. This is why we are here. Together. Still”. That the good outweighs the bad, that growing and learning together produce inevitable scars but that the end result is worth it.

What is the key? Without love there is no foundation. Love is first, foremost and last. Love carries you. Love, and forgiveness.

Without forgiveness, we could not continue to love: to sustain each other through mutual dark hours, ugly moments, and spaces of sheer fucking stupidity. Forgiveness allows you to check in and reaffirm that yes, the love is still there, and because there is love, there will be forgiveness. And from the forgiveness blooms love.

A pretty place to meditate on the past seventeen years doesn’t hurt the process, either.

I could eat tacos every day. Actually, I could eat any number of Central and South American delights every day. I love the fresh citrus, the bright cilantro notes offsetting the smoky rich depths of chipotle and beans wrapped in a soft corn blanket.

Tonight it’s me and the kids, and in all their palate-loving wisdom, requested smoked salmon tacos. Hell, yes.

So I started playing and came up with chipotle-caper-creme-fresh, smoked salmon, Old Bay slaw, pickled beets, jalapenos and shredded cheese tacos.

GF of course, with a side of tortilla chips and smiles.

Stay tuned for their scores…

***FULL DISCLOSURE:  This is NOT a fully gluten free culinary post:  the market is great, but the food stalls are NOT GF***

I found myself with a couple of hours to spare to myself, outside of my house, away from my work and chores yesterday….(wow, who knew what THAT feels like!?)  and after dropping one off at a movie, went out in search of food.

I have long loved Vancouver Chinatown, but it has dwindled immensely since my childhood, and what was once a thriving market area is limited to a couple of kitchen shops, a bakery, tea house and a whole fleet of new hipster restaurants.  It’s not the same.

Enter the Crystal Mall.  I had never been in there, never walked across the street from Metrotown where most of my business went.  And here is where I rediscovered my market.

The Crystal Mall is a thriving and densely packed community of fruit and vegetable stalls, Chinese Medicine shops, bubble tea, phone cards, octopus and food from what looked like every region of China.

There was a food court upstairs, and I toured around:  everything looked and smelled delicious! (Editor’s note:  this is not GF, or GF-friendly.  Full disclosure, I was using this opportunity to not have to worry about gluten or cross-contamination, as my GF-child was safely ensconced in Avengers).

I ended up at the “Want! Want! Noodle House” and ordered beef tendon rice noodle soup, medium spicy, with boiled peanuts and garlic sauce.  O. M. G.  My lips swelled from the spice and I was still savouring the flavours of tendon, pickled bitter melon, peanut and chili for a long time later.  It was incredible.

 

It’s Friday night and this overachiever had to try Bao. Aaron had bested it; I wanted to follow up with a hybrid bahn-mi/bao stunner, GF of course!

So I mixed and kneaded and proofed and kneaded…….

Add slivered marinated cucumber and shaved carrot, wasabi mayo and sriracha……

It was O-kay. Not awful, not amazing, just okay…

It goes without saying that we have spent the last year reinventing how we see food. Food got dark. It got dangerous. And then we bested our demons and came out the other side, safely and successfuly navigating around the evils of gluten. We had won.

At least, at home.

Travel has presented a fresh new challenge: an opportunity to crest another hurdle. It goes without saying that we are best situated when offered a small kitchenette and the ability to provide fresh, GF meals that are out of cross-contamination danger. And yet, even within that safe harbour, there are additional measures.

Measures that play directly into my OCD tendencies, and do nothing but exacerbate them. Even I am disgusted with my over-compulsive tendencies to clean and re-clean every square inch of food preparation area. I do it in the name of safety for my son, and indeed, am proven victorious when he stays healthy all weekend. But what is good for him is not good for me. Rather than sitting back on vacation and relaxing, I must now front-load a weekend away with sanitizing cutlery trays and scouring cupboard corners. All in the name of keeping him safe. Don’t misinterpret me: this Tiger-Mom will do anything in the name of her kids. But I believe there is value in recognizing my self in the journey too.

So we continue: we are coming up on our one-year anniversary of his positive endoscopy, and I am beyond proud to say we’ve got this. Now it’s all about the nuances. And reigning in my OCD.

It’s been almost a year since our diagnosis, and we were doing so well…

Sigh.

Depending on how you look at it, mine is lucky.  His body immediately tells him he has been ‘glutened’ with serious stomach cramps and major gastrointestinal distress.  He is his own major deterrent when it comes to the prospects of cheating or going back to wheat.

Some people are not as ‘lucky’: speaking with one mother the other day, she struggles with an asymptomatic teen who feels it is okay to cheat and sneak doughnuts and pizza with his friends.  Whereas mine will longingly look at a piece of pizza, his brain has now been hardwired to accept that it is sooo not worth the agony.

Flash back to the weekend:  out at a school event, and rather than make the informed choice of going after fully labelled candy that clearly spells out gluten free, mine chooses the unmarked baggie of bulk candy.  Yup, we were home within the hour.

Sunday brought a ready-made sauce that did not list any wheat or wheat products.  The website neither confirmed nor denied.  We rolled the dice, because sometimes it is nice to be able to reach for something ready-made, damnit.  Strike two.

Monday brought a dental emergency from my other one, and a request for good old macaroni and cheese.  Sure, I could do this.  I could make two dinners without cross-contaminating:  I had this!  Nope.  Strike three.

And now we lie awake dissecting every choice, every option, trying to figure out what it is that set him off.  We are wracked with guilt, made worse with his small pained voice, telling us it’s okay, and that he knows we are just trying our best.  He quietly asks if we can’t just go totally gluten free in the house, to provide him with a safe harbour, and danger-free choices.   Yes, darling, we can.  If it means keeping you safe, we will.

Parenting low-point.

Sigh.

 

Precious came to us from the Island;  caring for her in her twilight years when Al was no longer able to look after her himself.  They shared many characteristics, those two:  snowy white hair, questionable vision – hell, they even shared the same heart medication.

We were a family of “big dog owners”.  My husband routinely and derisively referred to dogs of small stature as “crab bait”.  Until Precious.

Quite simply, she stole our hearts.

Precious had a lot of personality for such a little furry body, and a whole lot of loyalty.  She would camp out under my desk, or her favourite spot;  in the corner of the kitchen as we prepped.  She particularly delighted in bits of cheese and potato chips.

Precious would look up at us with those milky eyes and her snaggletooth, and simply love us in silent companionship.  She was the ultimate companion, our stalwart and loyal friend.  Precious had a fun sense of style – she rocked a mohawk;  especially in Seahawks blue and green.

As a senior dog, she rocked it.  Camping at Golden Ears, Squamish and Harrison, hiking Lynn Canyon, or travelling to the Comox Valley, Precious was always up for an adventure and loved her car rides.

There is a little dog bed under my desk that is very empty today.    Goodbye Precious, you will be loved and deeply missed.

 

 

Your grandparents heap it upon you.  Parents heap it upon you: the waŕning of the passage of time. 

I have truly taken every opportunity to hug, snuggle and hold my children.  I am honestly blessed to know I am a part of more of their worlds than most parents are able to be.

But there it is.  Time.

A is old enough to not only stay home, but old enough to assume responsibility for other people’s children. I think back to my early babysitting days and I re-live the fact that I was in charge of children,  whole households at 14.   Not just any children: I was blessed with the journey of babysitting a high-needs, non-verbal autism spectrum disorder child.  At 14. Woa.

Children taking care of children. Knowledge that my sons will soon be taking care of other people’s babies. The passage of time.

We had a watershed moment tonight, contemplating the passage of time and the transition. There were tears, heartbreak and the knowledge of change.  The knowledge of the passage of time.  A struggled with it.  A lot.  He grieved for lost moments before thè moment occurred.  

We had to learn the lesson of living in the moment, within the passage of time.

To embrace the transition.
Here’s to transitions.

I try really hard.  I mean, really too hard on a fairly general basis.  I try so hard I back-seat myself, my needs. my agenda, and myself.  It’s a current state of being, and one that I am working on:  trying to find the balance between the family and me.

I try too hard at the wrong moments:   attempting a gourmet dinner on a Tuesday night to express my love for my family and their dedication, hard work, and incredible abilities.  I try too hard when he is stuck at work, at an incredible event in New West with the Fire Chief and a housing complex.  I forego my run in order to do after-school-homework-chores-karate drop off-dinner prep-karate pickup-serve dinner.  I should just give in and cheat and make a simple meal.  Something that is nourishing, requires little effort, and is easy for me.

(Except it isn’t easy with the Celiac factor:  most takeaway is dead to us, and that which still lives demands the GDP of a small nation in payment)

So I over-produce.  I over-compensate.  I decide to make a scratch-made gf schnitzel/spaetzle/veggies and salad dinner on  a Tuesday.  I can do this.

(What the fuck was I thinking?)

There’s nothing like an epic failure of a miserable mess of a dinner in front of you, with all, all of your family looking at you with sympathy and love and telling you “It’s OKAY Mom, this is delicious, and you’re amazing” and they are eating it anyways.  It is the reassurance of the buoyancy of their love for you that reminds you that you don’t have to be the super-hero, that you already are a super hero in their eyes and they love you no matter what anyways.

It’s the reminders of the love in the #mommyfails that are the best.  Thank you, family.