This is great news,” the doctor chirped, her voice full of sunshine and rainbows. She clasped both my shoulders so hard I thought she might shake me in glee. “You are going to get better!”
I sighed. Here we go again.
I had dragged myself into Dr. Sandra Peters’s waiting room resembling a zombified slug, and that’s putting it charitably: My health had declined steadily after the Rock Ceremony.
After testing and a two-hour consultation, Dr. Peters had diagnosed me with celiac disease. “Gluten is your problem,” she said.
Not only did I not believe her “great news”; I wanted to throw something. Her windows were fortunate that I was too tired to use her cactus as a projectile.
“I already tried the ‘no gluten’ thing, and a million other diets. Nothing worked. My other doctor said it couldn’t be celiac because I didn’t have any digestive symptoms.”
Dr. Peters looked alarmed. “Celiac disease is autoimmune; it can manifest in almost any system of the body. Fatigue, neurological symptoms, muscle spasms, joint pain—just because your stomach doesn’t hurt does not mean you don’t have celiac disease.”
“How could hives, pain, spasms, killer fatigue, and imitation heart attacks come from food?” I asked.
She gave a detailed medical explanation.
“Okay . . .” I exhaled, still incredulous but too worn out to argue. “What do I have to do?”
“Your system is so damaged you can’t eat any grains, period. Between that and my protocol, you’ll start to feel better in . . .” she squinted in thought, as if peering into my future, “about ten days.” Her eyes sparkled; mine looked like I’d been taking heavy sedatives.
“That’s impossible. I gave up eating entirely for a month and existed solely on liquids and protein shakes, and I didn’t get better.”
She stared at me. “Thirty days? Don’t you ever do that again!” But she had an instant answer for my skepticism. “My guess is your protein powder contained gluten.”
“Ten days?” I asked doubtfully.
“Days,” she affirmed, looking so upbeat that I guessed she was writing gleeful smiley faces in my chart. She presented two handouts with her diet and exercise protocol.
Slouching in defeat, I took them. “Fine.” I yawned. “I’ll try anything for ten days.”
Four days later I woke up and felt . . . good. The next day, I felt even better. Seven days after my new diet began, my life turned Technicolor. After ten days I looked over the paperwork I had filled out for another specialist, and I screamed like the house was on fire. Trent and Oxley came running.
“I reported I was functioning at 60 percent most days, but it was more like 25 percent!” I yelled.
During the next month, Trent learned he had married a maniac. I cleaned with utter glee. I practically skipped around doing errands, attacking mounds of paperwork, even exercising. I went to the grocery. I cooked. I talked on the phone. I worked. I wrote. I did all of these things in the same day!
Almost every day for two months, I cried with joy at 5 p.m. because I was so happy to be awake and pain-free. At night, though, I confessed my fear: “What if this is just a phase? What if it passes and I get sick again?”
“Then you’ll get sick again,” Trent would whisper in my ear , “and we’ll make it work.”
But I didn’t get sick. I got radically, amazingly, joyfully better. “My own, personal miracle,” I started telling friends and co-workers after three months, now that I was finally able to explain what had been going on for, oh, the past decade.
“To health!” Michelle toasted at book club.
To healing, I thought, lifting my glass.
Megan gave me a sidelong look. “It seems like you’re well just in time to write a book about your project.”
“Yeah, right,” I laughed, saying, “I could never write a book . . .” just as the woman I would become whispered: