Let’s talk about food. The popular understanding of chemotherapy – or at least the one I held until this past June – was that you puked all the time, lost a lot of weight, and generally existed in a liminal state of nauseated languor for the duration of your treatment. This, I can now report, is not the case.
I still remember the night I finally felt well enough to eat, a few weeks after chemo and then surgery: I called a friend, and we went to Mon Ami Gabi and shared a steak and sautéed spinach and mashed potatoes and pommes frites, too - and I can still recall it as one of the most heavenly experiences of my life. Suspect your glorious breakfast will likewise be a memory that holds. : )
In the summer of 1971, I went on a four-month fast against the Draft (subsisting mainly on coffee, white cross methedrine, occasional sips of miso soup, nips of Beer Nuts and beer) to take my weight down under their lower military acceptance limit for my height at the time — 131 lbs. for 6’1” — which dropped me from about 165 to 118 pounds. At first, the first month or so, I felt terrible cravings for all sorts of food, and a near-constant, nagging anger at people I would see eating all around me. But I was living in a Macrobiotic household at the time, with a pot of brown rice and miso broth almost always kept warming on the stove, so the transition down to near-zero intake wasn’t too jarring over time, and I actually began to develop a kind of disgust or pity for all the “terrible”, grossly excessive things I was seeing people jamming into their mouths almost everywhere I looked: gooey slabs of pizza, greasy burgers and hot dogs, mountains of ice cream and icy blue frozen pop drinks in cups the seeming size of garbage cans…. I actually became terrified of all that horrible-for-you food I saw in everyone’s hands and mouths all around. An occasional quiet taste of miso at night would be all I might permit myself, mostly to keep my bones from shivering me to death as I lay on my floor mat at night, nothing else burning in the inner furnace at all. Food — took me such a long while to get back to it. Sometimes — obese as I am nowadays — I still feel that way. Maybe time to get back to the miso. Glad for you that you still find great enjoyment in all that mess you’re going through.
I appreciate all of the info, never too much, we are eating and pooping machines when things go well, and when we are less-than-well, it becomes even more important (and, I agree, interesting). I wish you loads of satisfying nourishment. And extra capacity when the appetite and energy are roused. We live in these damn bodies and the learning curve is a lot. Best of luck with round 5, here. And I think of Laurie Colwin and her chapter on Nursery Food-- basically milk toast, I think, and she makes it sound like the best thing ever. Sending lots of vibes for the poison to do its damn work. The photo of the Champaign breakfast makes me want to drive down myself! Best to you, Martha.
I still remember the night I finally felt well enough to eat, a few weeks after chemo and then surgery: I called a friend, and we went to Mon Ami Gabi and shared a steak and sautéed spinach and mashed potatoes and pommes frites, too - and I can still recall it as one of the most heavenly experiences of my life. Suspect your glorious breakfast will likewise be a memory that holds. : )
In the summer of 1971, I went on a four-month fast against the Draft (subsisting mainly on coffee, white cross methedrine, occasional sips of miso soup, nips of Beer Nuts and beer) to take my weight down under their lower military acceptance limit for my height at the time — 131 lbs. for 6’1” — which dropped me from about 165 to 118 pounds. At first, the first month or so, I felt terrible cravings for all sorts of food, and a near-constant, nagging anger at people I would see eating all around me. But I was living in a Macrobiotic household at the time, with a pot of brown rice and miso broth almost always kept warming on the stove, so the transition down to near-zero intake wasn’t too jarring over time, and I actually began to develop a kind of disgust or pity for all the “terrible”, grossly excessive things I was seeing people jamming into their mouths almost everywhere I looked: gooey slabs of pizza, greasy burgers and hot dogs, mountains of ice cream and icy blue frozen pop drinks in cups the seeming size of garbage cans…. I actually became terrified of all that horrible-for-you food I saw in everyone’s hands and mouths all around. An occasional quiet taste of miso at night would be all I might permit myself, mostly to keep my bones from shivering me to death as I lay on my floor mat at night, nothing else burning in the inner furnace at all. Food — took me such a long while to get back to it. Sometimes — obese as I am nowadays — I still feel that way. Maybe time to get back to the miso. Glad for you that you still find great enjoyment in all that mess you’re going through.
I appreciate all of the info, never too much, we are eating and pooping machines when things go well, and when we are less-than-well, it becomes even more important (and, I agree, interesting). I wish you loads of satisfying nourishment. And extra capacity when the appetite and energy are roused. We live in these damn bodies and the learning curve is a lot. Best of luck with round 5, here. And I think of Laurie Colwin and her chapter on Nursery Food-- basically milk toast, I think, and she makes it sound like the best thing ever. Sending lots of vibes for the poison to do its damn work. The photo of the Champaign breakfast makes me want to drive down myself! Best to you, Martha.