My lovely, accommodating friends hosted a gluten-free taco girls’ night.

For once I am fearful of too much time, the kind measured not in minutes, but by the rhythm of an IV. Drip, breathe, drip, breathe, drip, breathe. The kind of rhythm that reminds me I’m not well, not entirely, not yet.

Tomorrow I start two-hour IV iron treatments for the next six weeks. The needles don’t scare me anymore; the time still does. Time to meditate and ruminate and reflect and worry. The kind of time punctuated by piercing silence, the realization that aloneness has its own sound, one that podcasts and Netflix can’t ultimately drown out.  Continue reading →

Mere moments after I nearly threw a GF muffin at bread-loving Oprah, I made peace with gluten over beer, naturally.

I cried over bread. And the box of granola bars. The cereal, too. Ugly cried. Kim K. cried.

The pile of gluten-rich food kept growing atop my counter. A sacrificial loaf. After a good cry and a donation to my local food pantry, I drove to Hy-Vee and bought some fancy rice flour.

I’d like to think we are all, “I. Love. Bread.” Oprah Winfrey sometimes, only now my favorite recipes — and my body — require more care. After months of doctor’s appointments and blood tests, I was recently diagnosed with celiac disease. No more normal bread and beer.  Continue reading →

My sister sent me a kickass T. rex card, and it makes a perfect LSAT bookmark.

It’s a magical, mystical world, almost. There are soda fountains with sodas named things like “Luck” and “Mist.” There are closets full of dresses in every fabric you could imagine. There are disc jockeys who flip between ballads and club hits with ease.

It feels pretty make-believe most of the time, but there are rules, myriad rules, that strip the magic from this world. The gauze dress can’t be next to the silk dress (who the hell owns a gauze dress anyway?). “Mist” and “Luck” can’t be first or fourth at the soda fountain. And the DJ has to play three consecutive ballads before he can bust out some dance tunes (no one turns up at the club to three back-to-back slow jams, really).  Continue reading →

Enough: I’ve heard the word often this year. It has become a state of being, one I’ve yet to fully embody, physically and emotionally — “Enoughness.” Uppercase, of course.

Do you have enough iron supplements? You don’t have enough iron in your system. Did your last doctor say your hemoglobin isn’t high enough, too?

With ample idle time in waiting rooms at doctor’s offices in 2016, I’ve had time — dangerous time — to ruminate on physical and emotional “Enoughness.” “Fill in the bubble next to all conditions that apply.” Here, “Enoughness” is quantified with each blackened bubble.

Playing keep-away with enoughness is one of my egregious habits; it’s easier, more comfortable, to ignore my own inherent completeness. Blackened bubbles extend into the real world. I become the score sheet, each mark the latest deficiency.  Continue reading →

Basking in my reign as flower girl.

Shirley Temples are a sentimental drink for me. I apparently downed eight of them as the flower girl at my Uncle Pat’s wedding in 1998. Feeling the power of my flower-girl status (and the sugar, let’s be real here), I twirled at the reception in my off-white dress, my 5-year-old frame nearly engulfed by tulle and chiffon.  Continue reading →

Frequent doctor’s visits call for comfort food. For me, that means lentil soup and falafel at Open Sesame in the East Village. I also love the lanterns.

I slipped on my Des Moines Half Marathon pullover, the one made from that fancy ever-dry fabric, rather than the “Newton Superfan” cotton T-shirt I often wear, long faded from Cardinal red to a confused pink color. I laced up my new running shoes, their neon colors still blinding from the box. Then I ran and ran and ran, probably too fast, probably too far at this stage in my training; I got a little power hungry.

The pace, the distance, the, “I’m a serious runner,” outfit — if I embodied power, embodied strength, it would somehow emerge. I was so close.  Continue reading →