IBD (I Be Dying... But I Be Getting a Bit Better Now)

This next story has been a long time brewing. That's not just because it's ongoing, but because it has taken me approximately this long to be able to write about it without getting pathetically distraught. Actually, my pathetically distraught stage was about eight months long, then I started transitioning into a slightly-less-pathetically distraught stage, and now I'm in a mostly-can-laugh-about-it-but-do-sometimes-still-spiral stage. For about three years previous to these stages, I was entrenched in increasing levels of stalwart denial.

Back in 2020, I started to have some concerns about my health. Now, I'll just cut right to the chase and let you know, I ended up being diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis in the beginning of 2024. I tell you this early on so that you have time to close this story down right now, because there's really no way for me to do a highlight reel of my journey without including more information about poop than my delicate sensibilities ever wanted to share. I will do my best to dance around actually talking about it, but when beating around a bush, one does occasionally strike it.

I have three nephews growing up next door to me, so I was able to witness the time in their lives when their topic of choice was poop (they have moved on to more sophisticated jokes about Uranus now, lucky us). They didn't even want to talk about poop, really, they just liked to say the word. Over and over again. Poop, poop, poop, poop. Of course, they would get reprimanded constantly for this. It's not polite. Civilized society doesn't want to talk about poop. And yet civilized society across the globe continues to poop. Some members more than others. If you can't desensitize yourself to the discussion of fecal matter, that's totally fine, but you are probably not going to want to continue reading this, because poop is the main character of this story.

Colitis has other symptoms too. Uncontrolled weight loss, open sores on skin, chapped hands, constant stomach cramping. There are more, I'm sure, but these are the ones that ganged up on me in the fall of 2023, making me desperate enough to finally go to a doctor.

Here were my holdups about seeing a doctor:

#1. I hate crying in front of people. Here are some things that have caused me to cry:

 - that time a panel sprang back and hit me in the eyebrow (teared up)

- that time during a business negotiation that someone joked about my lack of a pokerface and drew attention to me and I got embarrassed (teared up, displayed every shade of red, worked really hard to hold it together, kind of did, but didn't fool anyone)

- that time I was trying to explain my math to Dad and he wasn't understanding me (left the room, screamed at a wall, fully cried)

- every time I read a particular book and a particular character dies (have read it dozens of times and weep every time)

- that time I saw a stranger's baby and that baby was so chubby, and his foot was so so chubby that, I don't know, I just (wept)

- anytime I played out in my head how I would explain my embarrassing poop symptoms to the doctor (sad sobbing)

So yeah. I was stressed, embarrassed, and, let's be honest, feeling pretty sorry for myself; all tear-jerkers in my book. No matter how many times I rehearsed the doctor appointment in my head, no matter how many medical synonyms I found for "poop", it was inevitable that I would be crying.

#2. Fair warning, I'm about to not mince words here... in my heart of hearts, I knew, though I hadn't seen a doctor since my mother took me as a child, that once I described my symptoms, they were going to want to stick a finger up my butt. I am not so naive that I don't know how intrusive doctor visits can be, much as I've tried to avoid them.

I have always turned my nose up at olives. Just by how they look and smell and bob around in their viscous brine, I held a strong conviction that I would not like olives. When offered an olive, I've always said, "No thanks, I don't like olives," and this has always been enough, because even people who like olives are like, "Fair enough, these slimy little brine balls aren't for everyone." Then, a couple of years ago, I was pressured into finally trying an olive by one of those raving lunatics who think olives are amazing (my sister). And guess what?

I don't like olives.

They are exactly the type of gross that I'd been envisioning my entire life. I needn't have even tried them.

Some things are just like that. You know you aren't going to like it, you're made to try it, and sure enough, it's terrible.

Hint: the olives are a metaphor... but an imperfect metaphor; I'm not implying anything about my sister.

Anyway...

#3. I didn't want to have it confirmed that my three-year-long stretch of sketchy health was the larger problem that my niggling suspicions were telling me it was. I wanted something that would clear up with some hemorrhoid cream and a couple of salty baths.

So, that's why I held off going to the doctor. Spoiler alert: all of those things happened. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We have to start at the first appointment.

Since I didn't have a doctor, I set up an appointment to basically do a meet and greet with a doctor. This is also what I told my parents I was doing. That, and getting a tetanus shot. Neither were untrue (I hadn't had a tetanus shot in over twelve years, and apparently if you work outdoors and/or in contact with animal feces, you're supposed to get one every five years), but I wasn't ready to share all the gory details.

Since, in my head, it was just supposed to be a chill establish-a-doctor appointment, I didn't want to scare him off right out of the gates.

"Hello, my name is such-and-such, I'm as healthy as a horse! I won't be any trouble for you at all! Just setting up a family doctor for myself! Oh, if you have some free time, I've been having dozens of blood-filled bowel movements every day and constant stomach cramps for the past six months, and it started out as an intermittent problem, with increasing frequency, about three years ago. Also I have these sores on my face that won't heal, but it's no big deal; I think I just caught a fungus from a horse. If you could just assure me it's not leprosy or cancer, I'll be right on my way."

Anyway, Doctor looked at my face first, since that was the more accessible issue, and assured me I didn't have cancer (he didn't mention leprosy, but didn't ring a bell and shout "unclean!" either). Then, he was kind enough to ask if I'd like to book an appointment with a female practitioner to do a 'deeper dive' into the other issue (he did not use those words, those are my horrible words). I obviously said yes, because I'm all about procrastinating on unpleasant things, and, frankly, I'd been talking to him face to face for too long, him probing me with questions, and that somehow made the other kind of probing an even more awkward prospect.

Anyway, I went back to the front desk and booked a new appointment with the female doctor that my doctor told me to. I was safe for another little while, but in the meantime, my doctor had ordered a blood test for me.

The blood test is where things got detoured.

I drove in just for the test on pins and needles, especially needles, because I am terribly frightened of those things, and have never had blood drawn. The only needles I've had have been vaccines, and I've really done my best to do the bare minimum there.

I bravely approached the lady at the desk and handed her my requisition and health card, steeling myself for the impending poke.

But I didn't have to worry about blood work that day, because guess what? My health card was expired.

As someone who has avoided the healthcare system until the point where I was writing my last will on my phone because I had convinced myself in multiple late-night spirals that the pain was from some perforated internal organ and I was sure to die, I was outraged that now, in my moment of need, my health card was not going to work. And do you know why it didn't work??? Those extra two question marks indicate that I am about to tell you why, and it is a thing that, over a year later, still makes me hopping mad.

My card was expired because I HAD NOT APPLIED THE MAIL-OUT RENEWAL STICKER TO IT.

I can't even convey how angry I still am about this. For starters, the fact that they have all my information in their computer system but I need to prove compliance with A STICKER? A STICKER?? A LITTLE SQUARE STICKER WITH A DATE STAMPED ON IT??? First of all, when I didn't get a sticker in the mail, I didn't notice, because I never use my health card. When I eventually saw the expired sticker on my card, I thought, "Hm, I never got a sticker in the mail; they must have quit sending them since IT IS STUPID TO SEND OUT STICKERS WHEN EVERYTHING IS DONE THROUGH THE COMPUTER ANYWAY."The lady at the desk told me my card was expired because the mail sent to my address was returned to sender. Do you know what they do when your health card sticker is returned to sender? THEY SEND ANOTHER LETTER TO WARN YOU YOUR HEALTH CARD WILL BE CANCELLED IF YOU DON'T RESPOND TO THAT LETTER. SO WHAT THE FRIGGITY FRACK ARE SUPPOSED TO DO IF THEY SEND YOUR VERY IMPORTANT LETTERS TO YOUR GRANDPARENT'S P.O. BOX WHEN YOUR GRANPARENTS MOVE TO TOWN AND THAT BOX IS NO LONGER REGISTERED FOR USE SO THE POSTMISTRESS SENDS BACK LETTERS THAT ARE ADRESSED TO IT??? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO RESPOND TO LETTERS I NEVER RECIEVED???At the risk of sounding like Oscar Leroy, I PAY MY TAXES! How is it that one branch of the government, Sask Health, couldn't have leaned back in their desk chair, peeked past their cubicle, and said, "Psst... Taxman! Do you know if So-and-so still gets mail at box Such-and-such? Because these letters keep getting returned." And then Taxman could have done a couple of click click clicks on his computer and said, "Ah yes, she's a model taxpayer. Always on time. But we have her at box so-and-so, and the mail always goes through. You should get that fixed; you'd hate for her to not have health coverage even though she's paying taxes under the impression that the government is working for her."

Surely, surely, surely, there was some other way to establish contact than by simply mailing letters to an address that kept returning to sender.

I thought I was kind of over the visceral outrage about this, but as I'm writing about it, it's all coming back.

Anyway, it took a few months to get my new health card, but I was able to book appointments and just keep receipts until I got a new card; it just meant extra paperwork.

Once I got the health card figured, I was able to do a blood test and book the followup with the female doctor.

I am pleased to report that blood tests are not that bad! For this portion of the process at least, I have experienced leaps and bounds of growth. I went from desperate fear-mongering in the lead-up to a jab, to being, if I say so myself, pretty darn chill. Congratulations to me; this type of needle is not so bad (vaccination needles are still bad, though).

The followup with the doctor was about what it could be expected to be. Not an experience I would give two enthusiastic thumbs up for, because I never wanted thumbs up anywhere nohow.

Anyway.

Without divulging the details, the Mrs Doctor (I'm pretty sure that she was a Mrs Doctor becuase she had some large, sharp-looking rings on her finger that I was a-lookin askance at) told me that she couldn't "detect" any hemorrhoids, but that I could try a couple weeks of hemorrhoid cream and some salty baths to see if they helped.

Since her fingers were short (and stubby, I might add), I still had hope that I just had a simple, if uncomfortable, solution ahead of me.

A couple of weeks of soothing salt baths and a few Google searches of "Should hemorrhoid cream make my asshole feel like it's on fire?" later and there was no improvement. So, the doctor ordered a stool sample.

Stool samples.

No one tells you how to collect them. You're given a pill-bottle-sized receptacle in a little baggie and warned to write all the information correctly or you'll have to redo it.That little baggie sat on my dresser for weeks as I mulled it over. Necessity is the mother of invention, and I had invented a couple of options, but none of them were very appealing. I was better at inventing excuses for not doing it. There is no happy ending to this crisis. Eventually I just had to get it done, so I lined a chop pail with newspaper and, well, it served its purpose. I have since discovered a marginally more convenient method for stool sample collection, but at the end of the day, if you're collecting a stool sample, you're going to be digging through a pile of your own freshly squeezed, with the spork that's conveniently attached to the sample-bottle's lid. It doesn't matter how good you get at it, there's no way to glam it up.

Once the sample was processed, the follow-up appointment with my doctor was very brief and really could have been done over the phone. I went into the doctor's office and with very little preamble, he informed me that my fecal calprotectin count was high, which meant that I either had Crohns or Ulcerative Colitis, and that he would refer me to a specialist in the city. I was pretty miffed that I had come all the way in to town for that. There was no "Do you have any questions?" "Are you feeling like you're dying?" Or "Here's some things you can do to try alleviating symptoms while you wait three months for the specialist." Not even friendly chitchat. Now, I'm not saying I want a friendly chit chat. I generally go out of my way to avoid such things, but I had driven 45 minutes in to town for this guy to give me about 45 seconds of his time to diagnose me and then wash his hands of me. I just feel like that could have been an email.

Anyway, a couple Google searches later and I learned that my two potential diagnoses were Irritable Bowel Diseases (not to be confused with Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which is different). These are autoimmune disorders; my immune system, for some stupid reason, has decided to attack a part of my body. For me, with Colitis, it's my colon. From what I gather, Crohns can affect one's whole digestive system, but both present the same in a fecal calprotecrin test, which measures blood present in the stool, so further diagnostic measures were required to determine which one I had.

It's hard for me to remember in exactly what order these things went down, as well as where my general health was at, but what I've shared so far has been kind of the highlight reel of my healthcare system interactions from the fall of 2023 to about December 2023.

Now I have to rewind a little bit and talk about eggs and rice.

Before I was even beginning the process of being diagnosed, I was attempting to cure myself in various ways. I tried Metamucil, then more Metamucil, then tried eating an apple a day in the hopes that there was some truth to the old adage; I even tried praying a novena, even though the voice inside my head (which is either a conscience or just a particularly annoying voice of my own brain's dumb invention) kept nudging me towards going to the doctor to embrace the humbling experience, suffering is edifying, blah blah blah.

In a last-ditch attempt at a cure, I packed away my aeropress and gave up coffee. I literally wept, so you can add that to the list of stupid things that have made me cry. Cutting out coffee actually did help, to both my disappointment and relief. Other diet changes helped along the way, too, but none made so noticeable a difference as cutting coffee.

My routine through the summer and fall of 2023 was to get up around 5:00, have a strong cup of exquisitely brewed coffee while I said morning prayers, then go out and ride one of my 3-year-old colts through the heifer herd a half-mile away. The heifers got checked, and the colts got miles every other day.

By mid summer, I was struggling more and more with getting out the door. Actually, I'd get out the door alright. But then I'd have to bolt back in and use the bathroom. Sometimes I'd run to that receptacle a dozen times in the morning, and have to pack my pockets for trips into the bush along the way once I did get away from the house. Other times, it made me run so late, I'd end up just jumping on a colt bareback to take a quick count of the bull herd that was pastured by my yard.

For whatever reason, this miserable part of my day was confined to the mornings (mostly), and once it was over, I could carry out the day pretty normally (usually).

Unless I ate or drank something I shouldn't have. Like the time I guzzled about a liter of chocolate milk for reasons I cannot recall, then went out for the day, bouncing on a quad and walking into bushes to spray weeds. My stomach was churning with cramps and nausea, and despite packing my pockets with emergency toilet paper, I barely made it out of the pasture with both my socks.

I gave up milk after that, and in fact, the memory of how gross I felt is so strong and visceral that I don't even desire to drink milk.

I tried cutting back on gluten and greasy foods, and anything that made me feel immediately sick, but even though this sometimes helped not to exacerbate my issues, I took a major turn for the worse when I caught the local stomach plague of December 2023.

Maybe the rest of my family doesn't have this burned into their memory like I do, but this was one of the worst sicknesses I've had. I had on and off fever, chills, nausea, stomach pains, general achiness, and no energy for over a week, and even when the main symptoms eased up, I continued to have extremely unpredictable and unmanageable diarrhea. Do you know what it's like to have explosive diarrhea and have to suit up in a one-piece snowsuit to go out and do chores? Let me tell you: it's nerve wracking. And do you know how quickly you can wrench that snowsuit off and get it pulled out of the way enough to expose your Southern regions to the cold North wind? Let me tell you: sometimes not fast enough.The only good thing that came of my sickness was that, when Dad and I went to go clean the hundreds of pounds of dead pigeons out of a bin we were renting, I was dry heaving, feeling faint, and constantly on the verge of an accident, so I got out of that job. Oh and also, I lost about 20 pounds, so I was looking svelte. I was pale, had no energy, and was constantly on the verge or tears, but by George, at least I was skinny.

During and after that flu, my days went from being always not great, but often not a lot of pain to always painful. Not just constant stomach pain, but also the feeling that at any moment my colon was going to just fall right out of me. I don't know if you know what that sensation is like, but let me tell you, it's not great. Aside from the physical pain, I also carried the burdensome mental conviction that my colon actually might fall right out of me, and I would die. I even wrote my will on a note in my phone, and, while I didn't want to die, I also wasn't a big fan of living out my life like I was.

Sometime in the midst of the flu and the first set of test results, I decided to try to change my diet to eggs and rice. For about four months, that is pretty much what I ate. I did have other things when I went to Grandma and Grandpa's for Sunday brunch, but even then I tried hard to restrict myself to very plain foods. In hindsight, even though this plain diet helped to not irritate my colon even more than it was, I think it was ultimately detrimental, because if you look up the nutritional value of eggs and rice, it does not do a whole lot for you, so my poor, self-destructive body didn't have any energy to heal.

But at least I was skinny.

In March, I was connected with a gastroenterologist via a phone appointment, and in mid-March 2024, I was booked in for a colonoscopy.

To say I was nervous about this would be an understatement, so I obviously took to Google in a bid for comfort. Everyone on the internet said the scope was easy-peasy, don't sweat it; what you need to be prepared for is the preparation for the scope. I didn't believe them, but boy were they right. If you've ever done the prep for this, then you can laugh with me. If not, then laugh in horror.

I was given a 4-litre jug at the pharmacy, mostly empty, except for a bit of powder in the bottom. The requisition from the doctor had the instructions on it about what time to start, but the jug had the rest. If you have to do this prep, do yourself a favor and go online to a forum that has real people contributing to it, and get their tips and tricks. There are some seasoned veterans online who will give you much more helpful advice than you'll find on the back of those horrible jugs.First and foremost, you need to block off the day for yourself. Do not. Under any circumstances. Leave the house. Also, if you don't live alone, block off a washroom for your use. No one else gets to use it (they won't want to after things get rolling), and you should never be more than a few strides from it. If you can get the house to yourself, then you will not have to worry about closing the door. Seconds count here. In fact, seconds count so much that you're going to want to leave the light on and the lid up. And wear sweat pants; something you can get out of quickly.

The prep requires you to drink 4 litres of viscous, sickly-sweet liquid over the course of a few hours. 250 mL every 10 minutes.

You will have started fasting, but it doesn't matter how empty your stomach is, 4 litres of liquid is a lot to force into it in 160 minutes. There are no tips and tricks to this part, you're just going to have to swallow that much liquid.

To help you not to gag on the stuff, though, there are three things that help a surprising amount. First of all, after you've added water and got the stuff mixed, put it in the fridge. For some reason, that stuff is bearable only when cold. I got lazy about popping it in and out of the fridge for the last half, and boy, did it make a difference with how it stuck to my mouth in all it's nastiness.

Next, I found it super helpful to slug it back through a straw. I put the straw to the back of my tongue so that it would bypass as much of my mouth as possible.Finally, chase it with a cold, fizzy drink. You have to only drink clear liquids while doing the prep, but can still drink Sprite or Canada Dry.

That's what you can do to help with the intake aspect of your cleanse. The output aspect isn't a pretty one though.

If you're like me, you'll get through half of your prep liquid (which, spoiler alert, is NOT equal to half of your bathroom runs) and think you have the world by the tail. This isn't so bad, you may think. I'm half way done and, you know, I think I can get the rest of the way through without even needing the wet wipes.

But about halfway through is when you will go from running frequently TO the toilet, to running FROM the toilet to quickly chug your next portion of liquid, then returning immediately. Get yourself a good book, or set a laptop on a chair and put a movie on. Distraction helps.

And use those wet wipes. Don't die on that horrible, chafe-y hill.

The scope itself, by virtue of not being a 12-hour commitment like the prep, was not so bad. My very supportive mother drove me up to the hospital, helped me find the right area, and sat with me as I waited. Some nurses came in and got an IV line in and ready, then explained what I could expect. They assured me that the drugs were great, and even though I would be awake, most people fall asleep, and nearly everyone forgets the whole procedure, sometimes even the whole hospital experience. I was relieved to hear that, and was looking forward to not looking back on the whole thing.

Well I don't know who was in charge of my drug dosage, but it was not as advertised. I remember the whole thing perfectly, thank you very much, and I want a refund.

I remember as the nurses came in to the room and very kindly patted me as I started to hyperventilate, then tactfully gave me whatever it was that quickly induced not forgetfulness or sleepiness, but at least a lovely state of apathy, after which I was wheeled to a front row seat at the flat-screen monitor that showed me my own insides, real time. I watched in a kind of drug-muted fascination as the doctor spoke to the nurses noting the state of my colon, then watched as little jaws poked out onto the screen and grabbed at the pink walls for biopsies. When the little jaws closed and pulled, I could feel the vibration inside me, and I remember thinking to myself, "This is something that I could really next-level freak out about, but I'm not. How bizarre. I wonder when the forgetting stuff starts."

In fact, I was frequently noting how clear my observations were, and how bizarre it was that I would soon forget all the vivid happenings around me. After the procedure was done, I was kept on the bed, but wheeled back to a shared room so Mom could wait with me. The doctor came in and shared her findings and meds she was prescribing. She spoke more to Mom and said she wrote it down because I probably wouldn't remember the conversation. She looked at me and laughed a bit as she said it, and I thought I should let her know that in fact, I remember everything, and, in fact, if I looked spaced-out it was just how I looked when I was thinking, and, in fact, I was preoccupied with vivid memories of what my own colon looked like.

I didn't, in fact, say any of that. I just continued to look spaced out and wondered when I would be forgetting all of this.

Even on the car ride home, I kept wondering when I would forget.

I never forgot.

You know what else I never forgot? What two weeks worth of an enema prescription is like. Doc didn't go into details on what she prescribed me; I just waltzed into the pharmacy and got handed two very different things. One was a bottle of pills, the other was a great big box of individually-packaged squeezy tubes.

I'm not going to go into details, but that is a horrible way to take in medication. I used to have to crush Tylenol in jam to get it down because I couldn't swallow pills. Let me tell you, a spoon full of sugar would not help this medicine go down. Or, rather, up.

Anyway, not going to dwell on that.

So now we're about mid-March, 2024, on my journey. The drugs prescribed had initially brought a lot of relief, or maybe it was the colon cleanse, but after several days, I kind of plateaued into a general improvement, but still daily struggle.

Meanwhile, they had gotten my blood tests done from my day at the hospital and called me back to organize some iron infusions. Several weeks previously, someone from the specialist's office had emailed me to tell me to start taking iron supplements, so I was doing that. After my latest rounds of tests, they decided that wasn't enough. They called to tell me I was being prescribed iron infusions. Then they called again to tell me how to pick up the iron at a pharmacy and take it to a hospital. Then they called to ask if I heard from the hospital about an appointment (I had not). Then they called to tell me there was a mix-up because I'm not a Big City resident, so they need to book me in at my Small City hospital. Then they called to tell me my prescription was at my pharmacy and my first of three appointments was in a few days. This was not all consecutive calls, so my first appointment was sometime in April, but I was still impressed with how on-the-ball these people were.Not before, nor since, have I been so well-tended by the healthcare system. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I have since gathered that they were in a hurry to get iron in me. Every time I went on the online site to read my health records, the site didn't work, so until late in 2024, I had no idea what any of my test results were showing.

Apparently my iron was at 2.9 umol/L (normal is 9-31 umol/L); iron binding capacity was at 4% (normal is 15-50%); and my ferritin was at 4 ug/L (normal is 10-200 ug/L).I don't pretend to know what those mean, but beneath the first two listed were the words "below low normal", and beneath the third was "below lower panic limits".

Which I guess meant they were panicking. Someone really should have told me.

They could have told me that was why I would eat lunch and then put my head down on the table and nap. They could have told me that was why my legs felt like lead when I tried to go faster than a walk and my head swam when I trudged up stairs. They could have told me that was why I was crying all the time, snapping at my nephews (that is, even more than usual), and finding nothing to laugh at anymore.

Oh well, at least I was skinny.

Anyway, the iron infusions were pretty great. I just got to sit there on a chair with an IV slowly dripping in. And they really solidified my relationship with IV needles, because each time they would try to get a vein other than the one on the inside of my elbow, they would fail. Once, they stuck me five times before they gave up and went for the big elbow vein. After that, they kept the non-elbow attempts down to two or three. They never succeeded, but I got used to needles.

After the third and final round of iron, I was feeling much, much, much better. Amazing what having functional blood can do for a person.

The infusions were weeks apart, though, so in the meantime, I had been prescribed another drug in an attempt to lessen my symptoms. The original anti-inflammatories I was given did help, but I was still losing quite a bit of blood and had stomach pain most days.

So it was time for my obligatory round of prednisone.

I say that because I have since gathered that the doctors have to make sure we try all of the cheapest routes to autoimmune disease management before we are offered the hyper-expensive options. There are organizations in place to help with the costs of these expensive medications, but they want to make sure all other options have been tried.

Anyway, the prednisone did nothing for me and nothing to me, which was a relief because I read the laundry list of potential side-effects and I was worried about them starting every day. After that 8-week round produced no results, I was able to start onto the good stuff.

I believe it was late September when I started on an immuno-suppressant. One tiny pill, once a day.

Immediate relief.

My symptoms went down to almost nothing the very same day. It was like a miracle. Doctor said that if the new drug worked, I could quit taking the anti-inflammatory.

Walking on sunshine, I quit the other drug, cold turkey.

And all my symptoms came roaring back with a vengeance, worse than they'd been in months. I don't know why, but I thought I'd just tough it out for a week to see if my guts would adjust. After a horrible week, I started taking both medications again, and slowly started getting better. I also started taking turmeric capsules, which are by far the cheapest medication I've had, and did seem to cause a positive change when I started them. I'm not going to go all hippy-dippy here and try to medicate myself with roots and leaves, but I figure a bit of turmeric isn't going to hurt, especially since they're are about $8 for a month of pills. By comparison, the anti-inflammatory meds I'm on are about $300 a month, and the immuno-suppressant would be close to $3000. A month. Fortunately for me, I got that health card fiasco sorted out, and qualify for coverage through Sask Health, so now I don't have to pay for much of it at all. We have to pay for it. God bless taxpayers, every one.

The doctor suggested tapering off slowly next time, but I was a little gun-shy, so I allowed myself maximum drug-use as I ate my way through Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years feasts, making regrettable food choices and gaining those 20 pounds back. Through the feasting, my symptoms came and went, not usually too bad, but never completely gone. There are certain foods that I try to avoid, or at least, not eat too much of. For fun, here is a list of things that have been, at some point or another, on my naughty list for being suspected of causing me unfortunate stomach discomfiture:

- gluten, especially pancakes, sourdough, and pierogies

- gluten-free noodles

- dairy, except cheese

- saur kraut

- tomato-based soup

- popcorn

- green beans

- lettuce

- nuts/seeds

- oranges

- potatoes

- avocados

- Gatorade

This is not a comprehensive list, but for more funsies, let's break this list into some groups.

Here are some things that I'm too gun-shy to go for, because they did me so dirty at one time:

- Milk. Not any other dairy, just plain milk. Can't forgive or forget what it did to me back in 2023.

- Gatorade. Might have been just random timing on drinking this (I don't drink it a lot, but I was sick and had no appetite, so I figured electrolytes would help me), but I'm still scared to try it again.

Here is a list of things I can eat in moderation, but they will sometimes affect me worse than other times:

- gluten, including in pancakes, sourdough, and pierogies

- gluten-free noodles

- saur kraut

- tomato-based soup

- popcorn

- green beans

- lettuce (sometimes is great, sometimes is devastating)

- nuts/seeds

- oranges

- potatoes

- avocados (I really need to remember not to eat a whole avocado again)

What I'm trying to point out here is that all foods can make me feel sick, and also sometimes almost none of them do. Also, many of these are food sensitivity suspicions, which is a very unreliable science. Like if I forget that I had a bowl of death-by-chocolate for desert and blame my sickness on the carrots I ate, I might turn my nose up at carrots for a while and keep getting sick off of death-by-chocolate.

ALSO, some other things that make me sick are changes in my routine, stress/anxiety, eating too much food, eating too little food, wearing too tight of pants, and travelling by train on backwards-facing seats. (That last one is just motion sickness, and not related to Colitis.)

So you can see why it is hard to just eliminate things that make me sick. At the end of the day, it is my own immune system making me sick, so yes I will have that pudding, thank you very much.

So yeah. That's about where I'm at today, spring of 2025. There's no final, happy resolution to this; I'm still not symptom free, and am prone to achey guts, frequent bathroom breaks, and food sensitivity, but I am feeling so much better than I was this time last year.

Even though I'm not skinny any more.

Well, I think this provides a long-winded explanation for why I haven't had the energy to keep up with writing or with social engagements. I guess you could say that I was just plain old pooped. Now my biggest fans (those harassing old Grandmas of mine) can have something to read so they can get off my back about what I'm working on writing. Five years worth of mental, emotional, and physical trauma ought to placate them for a little while.

I hope I can stay on this upward trajectory regarding my health, but if you see my horse parked beside a bush without his rider, just walk on by, thanks.

And don't go picking up any lone socks out there.