Last September, I was so sick. I felt awful and not being well kept going on and on. I tried to hide it as best as I could, even downplaying the situation when I told people that I wasn’t well or when I had to step back from a responsibility.
It wasn’t that I don’t know how to stop. It was that stopping meant time to consider how bad things were. I didn’t want to.
Eventually, after not quite two months, I was diagnosed with celiac disease. There were many medical tests and a lot of contradictory advice that finally led to the diagnosis. By the time I was diagnosed, I felt weak, sick, and confused. An autoimmune disorder was better than what we had thought might be happening, but learning the shape of my new life seemed like a climbing a mountain shrouded in fog. I could keep climbing, but I had no idea what would come next.
I had been in a place before where I thought I might choose to walk down a path and not return. I knew how that felt. I needed something as a marker for myself: I will do this every day. It may be the only thing good in my day. If it is, it is still one thing, one gift, one perceived grace. If it does not bring me even a little joy, I must ask for help.
Carrots and Litehouse Buttermilk Ranch.
This was my emotional cairn. So many foods and so much convenience and so much history felt taken from me. And after years of not feeling well and two months of acute pain, I needed a very small joy, and it needed to be easy to replicate every day.
So, every day, I sat down to carrots and ranch in the afternoon. Every. Single. Day.
And I paid attention while I ate. The sharpness of that specific brand. The crunch of the carrots. The combination taste. A tiny ritual that became an oasis of hope that things would get better.
Every day I would ask myself: Am I okay? Is this okay? Do I need to call?
As long as I could taste the carrots and the ranch, I was okay. If they became tasteless, that was my signal.
I have a therapist. I have praying friends. I had gotten a doctor I trusted. I have used 988 for other people. I did have a plan for help.
The taste didn’t fade. A very slow journey toward feeling better took shape.
There were tears and very hard days and other difficulties along the way. No one’s life is the same on the inside as it looks on the outside.
Prior to last fall, I did not buy ranch dressing. I liked it, but not enough to have it around. Ranch dressing did not save my life, but it gave me a way to help myself stay in touch with me.
It is easy for me to think my value is only in my brain and intellect, but my body matters. My whole self is a gift from God.
Carrots and ranch help me remember that. Mystic, sweet communion indeed.
If you have lost sight of joy, if what was meaningful to you just isn’t anymore, if the pain feels like too much- please reach out and let someone know. Please tell a friend. Please call 988 or a trusted helper. Please know that life does not have to feel that way.
Call me. We can have carrots and ranch together.
Comments