Food is our love language.
And today, Costco was my prison.
In the Snyder family you show someone how much you love them by cooking for them. My mom could give gourmet chefs a run for their money and she made sure to impart her skills onto me and my sister. I’m no gourmet myself, but you will leave my home full, happy and with a take-out dish to go.
Four years ago, our world got a little rocked (or so it felt at the time) when Tanner was diagnosed with Celiac Disease. I was no stranger to the disease as I had written an in-depth article on it during my tenure as Sr. Editor for ABILITY Magazine. In fact, it was one of the few disabilities I didn’t think I could ever handle. I remember writing about the issue of cross-contamination and how a spatula used to fry an item with gluten could not then be used on a gluten-free item because even a crumb of bread could cause days of illness.
When Tanner became reactive to everything he ate, and would lay — on the couch, the bus, the beanbag at school — with tears in his eyes saying “sick, hurt” I knew in my mom gut that he had Celiac Disease. I took him to the doctor and she assured me he didn’t and ordered labs. To appease his persistent and adamant mom (me), at my instance she included the Celiac panel. Of course it came back positive.
That’s where it got ugly and one of the worst windows in my life began. A diagnosis of Celiac can only be confirmed with an endoscopy. The soonest they could fit him in was about six weeks away. That wouldn’t have been the end of the world except that you can not alter his diet or a false negative can occur. Because it’s such a huge life change, the absolute verification is required.
So, for the next six weeks I fed my son his whole wheat toast, his wheat pasta, his croissants and hamburgers and everything else filled with the gluten that I knew was destroying his little body. I fed him the very thing that hurt him and then watched him lie on the couch knowing I had intentionally inflicted this pain onto him.
Moms are supposed to protect their children.
And I hurt mine. Again and again and again.
For six weeks.
Sure. Doctor’s orders. Big picture. I still felt like the devil.
The endoscopy finally came, Celiac was confirmed and the days of me crying as I fed my child, knowing the food was poison to his frail little body, came to an abrupt halt.
My fears of learning to navigate a new gluten-free world were trivial compared to the pain of hurting my child. The first day I was overwhelmed. The next two days I started to get the hang of it. By day four I could have written a blog.
Cooking for my child was a gift and a privilege. Keeping him healthy became my job and a part of my identity. When almost everything can make your child sick, it begins to consume you. Every meal out would be dictated by not only their menu, but the level of English and ability to communicate *and* their attitude. Yes, I cared about the attitude of the kitchen staff at a restaurant. If they seemed annoyed or bothered by the hassle of cooking for my son (changing gloves, wiping down counters, fresh utensils, specific ingredient changes, etc) then I wouldn’t trust them not to cut corners. My baby would never get sick again under my watch.
At home, we all sacrificed. Certain dangerous foods that we all loved were banned from the house, for fear of Tanner not understanding his dietary restrictions. Travis was always a good sport though, and rarely (if ever) complained when special items like Cookies and Cream ice cream were permanently off the shopping list.
It was just our new life. And if it kept Tanner healthy, we were all on board.
At the same time, I became borderline obsessed with ensuring my baby didn’t go without. I tried my hand at gluten-free croissants, would scratch make graham crackers for smores and donuts for breakfast, or stay up until 2am hand making fondant because he special-requested Power Ranger birthday cupcakes.
Today, we went to Costco and I lost my ish.
I couldn’t help but see every item through the eyes of Tanner’s mom. As we began to load up the cart with gluten-riddled foods I began to cry in the aisles. I couldn’t help but feel I’m somehow betraying my son.
I don’t want the easy way out.
I don’t want the freedom to buy whatever I want.
I want my baby. I want the hassle and that stress of a pain-in-the-ass-diet that would leave me reading every label, circling him like a hawk at potlucks, and walking every babysitter through cooking for a kid with Celiac.
Food has become my enemy. Everything is a memory and most memories are of him being sick or going without. Our last family dinner he wanted pie. He sat, gave it great thought, and announced “Pie!” It broke my heart to tell him it wasn’t gluten-free and he looked down with resignation. I quickly promised him I would bake him a pumpkin pie very soon.
It never happened as the next night we landed in the ER and I decided to wait until he felt better before I set to cooking. It’s these little pieces of unfulfilled promises that haunt me the most.
For years I thought a cure or freedom from Celiac would be a gift. I realize now that Celiac had become an opportunity for me to show him how much I loved him.
And I loved him hard.
