Fatigue vs Stamina

In this tale, H.K. will play the part of the strapping young bulk of a man, Stamina, whilst your "humble" (who are we kidding?) narrator will play Fatigue.  H.K. often deals with the stress of not only my illness, but my persistent lack of confidence or pride when I am ill.  It's a load on him, and I do not pretend to not notice; in fact, I owe him decades of tantrum-free Ragalove to make up for the last year and whatever other spurts of self deprecation may occur in the future... and lots, and lots of Legos.

Ahem...

T'was the night before Friday, and all through the apartment
no creature was stirring for they knew what compartment
of Hell they would occupy, should they cross Fatigue's way
as she raged against the defeat of a very long day.

Calm was her manner as Fatigue attempted to hide
the day's exhaustion that was melting her insides
and cooked, she, a meal of potential glory;
"potential" being key to the outcome of this story
for Fatigue was... fatigued, and she undercooked the broccoli
and the way-too-bland chicken simmered so mockingly
which was tolerable to her taste buds until Stamina tiptoed
into the region where no other creature dared go.

"Darling," he whispered, so cautious and patient,
"this broccoli's not quite done, if I may be blatant;
could I give it another quick spin in the pan?"
and Fatigue's eyes went red as she glared at the man
and then, an explosion of surprising magnitude
was aimed to attack Stamina's loving attitude.
The tears flowed in streams from Fatigue's boiling eyes
her obdurate upset in no kind of disguise.

T'was a culinary failure, she sorely proclaimed
and swore no more dinners would henceforth be maimed.
For Fatigue had decided that this single supper
was a representation of all that she blundered;
her pattern of failure to remain insurmountable,
her tantrums toward Stamina seemingly uncountable,
Fatigue simply gave up with a mucousy blow
and poor Stamina, a kiss and a hug did bestow.

"Don't do this to yourself," Stamina appealed
"it's been a long day, and this is just one meal,
we'll do it together the next time around,
and we'll follow the book so that things turn out sound."

When an hour of crying had passed, the truth was outed:
Fatigue was embarrassed of all that she touted
to be able to give Stamina in return for his love
and felt she could not, despite all she had hopes of.
The undercooked broccoli and under-spiced chicken
weren't hints of a long day, but marks of a quickening
realization that Fatigue was no good
at providing the things that a good partner should.

T'was the day after Thursday, and with her eyes dried
Fatigue began battling the inadequacy inside
admitting that exhaustion was likely to blame
and she still had this gift to give Stamina unmaimed.
Fatigue returned home from another long day
rhapsodic that she had not driven Stamina away,
and promised him a weekend devoid of strife.
Happy Friday to all, and to all a good life!

--------------

Just so y'all know, when prepared correctly (below), this dish is scrumptialicious.

Methods

1. defrost two chicken breasts

2.  dice yam into 1" blocks to match banana chunks

3.  caramelize onions in pan

4.  throw yam chunks in with onion

5.  in a separate pan, stir fry broccoli with olive oil, salt n' peppa for 2 min on med-high followed by 5 min on med-low

5.  when yams are halfway to their peak softness, add chicken

6.  after 1 min, add 1tsp garlic, 1tsp turmeric, 1tsp cayenne

7.  add bananas to chicken/yam/spice pan and cook on med-low until everything is soft and chicken is cooked

meet Julienne...

I christened my Julienne peeler this evening.  Simply, I am in love.  I must now find every peelable vegetable that might potentially be Julienned into vegeghetti.  My first experiment, courtesy of H.K.'s sexy 50mm f/1.4 Nikon from the 80s, sports Ragapesto chicken on a bed of zucchini with oat bread (aren't I posh).  Next; carrots, broccoli stems, yellow squash, potato, turnip, parsnip... what am I missing?

Methods

1.  defrost chicken (what? I need to be reminded to do this)

2.  Ragapesto: mix 1 tsp coriander, 1 tsp cumin, 1tsp garlic, 2 tsp basil and 1tbsp lime juice in mini dish

3.  wash and julienne [veges of choice]

4.  toss chicken in pan with 2 tsp olive oil (substitute broth for oil if flaring)

5.  toss julienned [veges of choice] in another pan with 2 tsp olive oil (or broth) and add salt and pepper

6.  when cooked, spread Ragapesto generously over chicken and place over sautéed [vege of choice] on an aesthetically awesometastic plate

7.  serve with toast and... honestly, almost any wine -- a Zinfandel or Sauvignon Blanc, if I must be choosy.

what dreams may come

The following is a tale completely unrelated to Crohn's except for that it was likely spurred by the night sweats and every-ten-minute pees that have returned since the last non-infection-infection quieted, which, btw, is now theorized by the Ob-Gyn to be an allergy (gasp!!).  I'm not complaining, however, since as of today I have not had above baseline instances of Crohn's pain in almost two weeks.  Two weeks, bitches.  Yay, body!

And on that note...

Upon returning to my pillow in a cold sweat after having gotten up to pee for the third time last night, I fell immediately into the deep slumber accompanied by psychedelic dreams.

Scene 1--
I was late to work, and worried that the last express bus had beaten me to the transit station.  How fortunate that when I turned around, there was the last 64 bus approaching a stop fifty feet behind me.  I ran.  Having waved my arms madly in front of the doors to get the driver's attention, he reluctantly stopped in the middle of a busy intersection to let me board.

If my dreams are typically accompanied by smells and humidity, they are not memorable.  What flushed my face as the bus doors closed behind me may stay in my olfactory memory for a week.  First of all it was a dirty, sulfur-soaked and muggy atmosphere as one would expect to find on a hot summer day in 'Nam.  I sat down in the only empty seat I could find without processing the imagery before me.  An entire side of the bus had supplemented stretchers for seats, upon which bodies lay bleeding, stinking and slowly dying.  The remaining seats were filled by beaten bodies in bleach-white Tees and trousers, seemingly untouched by the blood that spilt from a melange of man-made orifices.  Perhaps it was because I work in a hospital that I did not initially question the new population of my morning commute.

"Isn't this bus going to Marquam Hill?" I finally asked the driver.

"No... this is bus 393..." [NOTE: where the hell did 393 come from?]

"Where are we going?"

Silence from the only body on that bus with a face completely bereft of affect.

I got off the bus at the next stop, which was oddly thousands of miles and years away from the familiar intersection where I had boarded less than two minutes prior.  Surveying my questionable surroundings, I could only conclude that I had been dropped into a massive cluster of majestic Medieval buildings so congested that they seemed half maze and half shanty town.  The bus made a left onto a half-cobble-half-dirt road, and I was left alone.

Scene 2 --
The stuffy sulfur atmosphere diluted to a cold grayish blue.  Frightened out of my mind that I would now never find my way back to Portland, much less make it to work on time, I began to walk backward along what I was sure was the route by which bus 393 from Vietnam had brought me here.
 
Having walked for several "blocks" through infinitely high and mysteriously bubbly stone buildings, I noticed I was being followed by no less than a dark and handsome but quite creepy young fellow who was about to try to rape me.  I ran.  I was chased.  I tripped.  I begged.

"I will pay you twenty dollars to guide me out of this place and to not rape me." [NOTE:  where was H.K. during this terror, you ask?  sleeping peacefully like a damn baby in the sunshine beside my sweating and probably kicking physical self... thanks for jumping into my dream to save me, jackass.]

He said nothing, but backed off and helped me up.  I then followed him in the direction that bus 393 from Vietnam had come from, which had reappeared before me.  He ended up leading me in circles through this increasingly gorgeous but eerie and untouchable city, whose frozen blue mists seemed only to bother my nostrils.  Everything around me began to smell like moss, which was, for whatever reason a soothing gesture on the part of my psyche.  When we reached the "beginning" of the bus route for the last time that I was willing to tolerate, I tried to break from my captor, racing down what had turned into a muddy cobbled hill road.  Giant wooden French doors of a massive cathedral appeared before me and I flew against them nearly cracking my now glacial lungs. 

I slid on my belly to a marble floor with some religious images that I could not make out.  Rolling onto my back to see if I had lost my predator, I looked up to see him standing over me.  He sat, out of breath beside me on the floor.

"We had a deal," I said, "I promised to pay you twenty dollars to guide me out and not to rape me.  Aren't we friends?  Can't I get the money to you later when I find my wallet?"

Unbeknownst to me, but perfectly apparent to the place from which my pleas were originating, I had lost my wallet in the chase... or the walk... or on bus 393 from Vietnam, and could not pay my predator to leave me be. 

"We aren't friends," He chided, and then added something whiny and mumbled.  The gist was that I had not been a good enough companion to warrant friendship.  Perhaps I should have let him rape me to encourage camaraderie.  All smells diminished here, and He fled through the open doors of the cathedral as if I had insulted him beyond reparation.

Scene 3 --
(Enter Gregory House, MD)
No sooner does my predator leave than another's presence is observed.

"I found your wallet in the mud," House grunts in typical House fashion.  The chastising that followed was primarily confused and inarticulate in a very, very atypical House fashion. "Something is missing from your documents..."

In place of the cathedral's altar there appeared a great digital screen that was supposed to display the contents of my wallet.  Oddly, there were no cards or monies -- only pictures.  House kept giving his befuddled speech as various images of pictures I kept in my wallet appeared on the screen.  Finally, when the screen was full but for a large black gap in the center, House's words became clear again:

"After you dropped your wallet in the mud, I paid 'Him' to follow and try to rape you."

"Why??" I was thinking, horrified, but could not utter because Dream Mode set in and my words were soundless.

Scanning the images in front of me and recognizing none of them, my dream self suddenly realized: "My son?  You're jealous of my son, Darren Rosé?!" [NOTE:  who the crap is "Darren Rosé", and how/when did I produce a blonde-headed, ice-blue-eyed stuffed animal of a human being?]

Upon uttering or screaming these words (not sure how they came out in Dream Mode), I found myself inside a digital image on the screen, holding a small ice-blue-eyed blonde-headed baby boy and screaming in silence after House, who walked casually out the giant French doors of the Cathedral.

End Scene.

And all the while writing this, I've been humming "Steady as a beating drum" from Pocahontas, a song and movie which have not heard or seen much less thought of in at least six years.  Touché, Crohn's.

Hega hega yam-pi-ye-hega...

The Method

The recipe-posting hiatus has gone on long enough.  Tonight's dish celebrates my most reliable comfort, my most beloved enemies and my troubled hypocrisy.

Methods
1.  Nuke sweet potato
2.  Whilst nuking, dice a yellow onion and get sizzling in a tiny amount of olive oil
     a.  "tiny" means a quarter teaspoon, mixed with chicken broth if you need to dissipate your saute
          medium in a big pan
     b.  because there must always be a "b" for every "a"
3.  Wash and dice creminis and kale
     a.  oyster mushrooms are also great in this one
     b.  remove kale shreds from main stem
4.  Toss creminis into pan with half-carmelized onions
     a.  open and rinse a can of navy or black beans
     b.  pour glass of Johan Vin Gris 2007 (yes, a good Pinot from this year is hard to come by);
          water, if you are a less masochistic Crohnie
5.  Add turmeric, coriander and pepper to the onions and toss
6.  Dice softened nuked sweet potato and add to pan with kale and a can of navy or black beans
7.  Pile onto whatever aid you need to get it to your mouth

I've been atrociously weak this year.  Atrociously.  There has been no fight in me.  I blame it on H.K. for giving me something to persistently lean on.  Despite an outwardly aggressive and invincible daytime manner, I come home at night and crumble into depression.  About what, you ask?  About my unreasonably perfect life, and how maladroit I am trying to keep up with it.  H.K. combats my crumbling with reason.  And yet, he always wins; my fears are consistently proven obdurately nonsensical (read: in fact, I am responsible for some of the awesomeness in my life). 

He reminds me of how difficult it is to judge oneself objectively, and urges me to trust his assertions as the objective party to my madness.  Suffice to say, his assertions are that I am doing just fine, and have a bad habit of defending everyone else's set-backs but my own.

And he is right.  I have this self-deprecation complex which, before H.K., I was always told was very unattractive.  For whatever reason, it hasn't driven him away (yet).  In the end, though, it inevitably seems to come out that I have spent the evening being upset about something simply because I had found time to relax (read: veg in front of a movie), and felt outrageously guilty about it. 

This happens because the Compulsion has projects it wants to do (read: Raganovel 20XX remains twenty pages of research and three pages of verse).  I think the problem there is that I'm too oriented about the goal, and not so much about the Method.  The Method, however, is what I live for in every other arena.  Particularly when Crohn's is feeling neglected does my pace retard and the Method become more important to appreciate.  And so I cook.

What it is to be Addicted

I will always purport that I do not have an addictive personality.  My Crohn's, however, has a different grasp of physiological priority.

We all know the taste of sweet freedom that comes with the alleviation of a flare.  The opportunity to stuff ourselves with forbidden sweets, meats, fiber and alcohol is oddly new every time it occurs.  Be it a week of starvation or six months, the gustatory ambition that surfaces at the first sight of a pain-free day is unstoppable.  This is celebration (and, perhaps, weakness), but not addiction.

No, the phenomenon of which I speak is of a chronic and somewhat masochistic nature: a beast that hibernates during the most turbulent parts of Flare Season and soon overwhelms the first glimpses of attenuated agony that might suggest the ingestion of food without consequence.

I speak, of course, of The Compulsion.  Normally, The Compulsion takes the form of the homunculus in my brain who demands that I constantly have something constructive for it to do.  Lately, after eight months of excruciatingly limited diet, The Compulsion is more concerned with food.

Primarily when we have guests staying for weeks at a time in our home (which is more often than you would suppose), The Compulsion wants to be a good host and assumes the responsibility of eating and drinking those forbidden sweets, meats fibers and alcohols that our friends appreciate in our cooking.

And so, Dear Friends, the last week has once again been especially filled with pleasant dining and indulgence in my favorite wines (in the tragic way that only an oenophile can treasure good wine after eight months prohibition).  This, while keeping The Compulsion happy and contented, has been accompanied by nightly sits with the hot pad; teaearlgreyhot; the toilet and, occasionally, our loving companion, Percocet.

This is the plight of an addict -- to lack the composure to say no to food and drink in social scenarios, even when the pain is immediate.  Seriously; if you've ever tried to quell alcoholism or quit chain smoking, this is the mental state I am in right now.

Of Sloth, Glutton and Remicade VII

On Friday night, I lost my family dog.  Physiologically an aging hound, he was otherwise a puppy; he was an energetic, spoiled, happy, somewhat disobedient, gorgeous, gigantic puppy.  I did not become aware that he was even ill until two hours before he died, and the blindsided nature of his death is what makes it so difficult.  Post hoc analysis (note: assessment of tests/behavior, not autopsy) has strongly suggested that he had a stomach tumor which ruptured and took him fairly quickly.  My poor little Aussie-Collie-Horse-Cow-Dragon (yeah, 80 lbs of pure child and beauty).  I am choosing to ignore the frequency of this fate in many dog breeds and feel that it is oddly ironic that my dog should die of stomach cancer.  It was hard after rushing to my family's house in shocked and frightened tears to see him just laying there majestically in the backyard.  I don't know how my parents managed to be with him as he twitched and let out his last breath.  I don't know how my father found the composure to clean the vomit from his front paws and close his eyes.  I have no idea how, two hours after I arrived, I was finally able to go outside and sit with him, kiss his head and stroke his back to say goodbye.  I have no idea how I managed to leave his side.  No matter how comfortable I become with the nature of death, it always destroys me.

Enter the Sloth.  On Saturday, feeling physiologically superior to what I have now accepted as my "normal" self, I hoped to be constructive.  I hoped to write my science paper, my "novel" and give some attention to my books -- I am thoroughly engrossed in the 12th and 13th century and m seemingly unable to wrench myself from it.  Instead, I moped in bed until 9am and let H.K. drag me to the park to play with his new sexy camera and micro-dolly.  There were, of course, dogs at the park.  None of them were nearly as beautiful as Shep, and made me miss him all the more (I have included a photo for those of you who never met him and begrudge my maternal bias).  I came home and moped some more, with a bit of writing peppered into the evening.

Enter the Glutton.  I have, since Friday night, been consoling myself with Tootsie pops and pomegranate juice (the latter is prescribed for my non-infection-[now]E.coli-infection, I assure you).  It has to be something like eight spanning the weekend.  I've also been gorging on crackers and forbidden cooked vegetables, since my appetite has chosen to overwhelm me in the absence of pain (which before today was on a 4-day winning streak).  And that craving for hard boiled eggs?  That had me bringing up my entire stomach contents last week, and -- surprisingly -- again, when I ate them today anyway not wanting to waste food.  But let me take a step back...

Enter the Remicade.  On Sunday morning, I received a phone call at 942am asking if I could come in for my infusion at 10am instead of 2pm, as I was scheduled.  This was such a strangely healing day.  I packed my Infusion Survival Kit and made it to the hospital by 1002am.  For what seemed like only 2.5 hours (as opposed to the usual 4) I sat working on my science article with old Simpsons episodes in the background and Nilla Wafers at my side.  When I drove home, I ran a mile and a half (this is a big step forward for me since last August), cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the rest of the apartment and wrote some more science before crashing in my bed with my tea and Frank McLynn's version of Richard and John Plantagenet.  Then we made coconut lemongrass chicken soup for supper (which has become a weekly habit).  One hell of an awesome day.

Today is a miserable one, but not because it is Monday.  As aforementioned, I decided to eat some hard boiled eggs today; not a good decision.  Work flew by in what seemed like a third of the time I spent there -- I don't even remember doing most of what I did.  The bus ride home was twice as long because I was concentrating so hard on not vomiting.  My dear friend is coming to stay with us for a week and I do not have the energy to adequately prepare the house/her bedroom for her.  My stomach is raging at me.  And I am still finding it a strenuous task to come to terms with losing Shep, although his quick departure is a comfort in that his pain was somewhat minimal, and not drawn out for months in attempt to stabilize him on various medications.

Madness, Glorious Madness

I hesitated to report until I was sure the following occurence was not a fluke.  Still not 100% convinced, I am willing to at least admit that I am utterly flabbergasted.

Beginning on Thursday April 1st, 2010, there was a noteable absence of  stomach pain/nausea/dizziness/hot flash that lasted the entire day.  An April Fool's joke from my insides, I thought, a silly trick my own mind is playing on me by bestowing a fleeting power to ignore all discomfort.

Lo' and behold, I awoke Friday April 2nd with yet another suspicious lack of agony.  What is this chicanery, I thought.  Since when do April Fool's tricks legally last beyond the first 24 hours of the month?  Naturally, I tried to out-do this mind-gut-wizard triumvirate by stuffing myself with a full serving of rice noodles.  Surely, this will welcome back the pattern of food=pain=nofood=pain that has characterized the last 2 weeks.  Alas, I returned home with a psychotic energy and not enough time to utilize it.  I ran, I cleaned, I made business phone calls, I added a few unpromising pages to Raganovel 20??... no percocet or hot bladder required.  Tea, however, is always required.

When Saturday came and I was approaching 3 full days without the familiar stomach pain/nausea/dizziness/hot flash to which I have become accustomed, I decided a further assault was in order.  Sushi.  That's right.  Raw tuna, crab, yellow tail and avocado.  And I waited impatiently for an army of nociceptors to wreak havoc.  Half an hour later, thirty measly minutes of stomach bloating.

Sunday I was beginning to think this was something I may have to get used to, so I pushed it to the max: pasta with a few peppers/zucchini/chicken/garlic and a bit of oil in the sauce, some organic gummy candies and a diet ginger ale, and a hardboiled egg wish horseradish (yeah, serious business).  Nothing.  Not a god damn peep.  Total comfort, almost total sleep aside from waking up every three hours for no apparent reason, total abandonment of the hot water bladder (for whose neglect I feel considerable guilt).

Today, Monday April 5th, 2010, is the last of four hellfire Mondays of this experiment at work, and I not only ran before work for the first time in 1.5 weeks, but am on a productive and enthusiastic roll.  My doctor may have been right about my experiencing a delayed withdrawal from Prednisone.  We shall see in the coming days.  Remicade VII is up to bat this weekend.

Cheers, Crohn's, you have me convinced that I am at the very least experiencing some kind of prolonged bodily displacement.  And Tummeh... job well done.