Because of extensive radiation damage, I lost most of my small intestine and several sections of my colon. As a result, eating has become one of the hardest parts of daily life. My body can no longer handle most foods, and I have to prepare almost everything I eat myself. I follow a highly restricted diet—not by choice, but by necessity. It’s not easy, but it’s my reality, and most of the time, I manage it with grace.
Being alive is worth every challenge. It’s worth the complications, the cravings, the limitations. Over time, the longing for foods I can’t have has mostly faded. But not entirely.
There are still moments when the smell of crispy fried chicken or a hot slice of thin-crust pizza takes me back. About a month ago, I gave in and had a single piece of fried chicken. I paid for it with nearly three weeks of feeling miserably ill. I miss cinnamon rolls. I miss pudding and cheesecake. I miss bacon, tomato sauce, creamy sauces, and yes, even something as simple as a Triscuit. I miss sandwiches with deli meat and soft sub rolls. I miss when food tasted the way I remember it—before radiation from my metastatic cancer changed my mouth, tongue, and throat, robbing me of both saliva and flavor.
My diet now is functional. Scrambled eggs. English muffins. Carefully cooked lean meat. I rely on processed carbs because I can’t digest whole grains, seeds, or even rice. Croissants, biscuits, and coffee cake? Off-limits. Beans, legumes, raw fruits and veggies are also on the no-go list. The few veggies I can eat have to be cooked until they are mush, and there really isn’t much of a point because all the vitamins and fiber are gone at that point.
I no longer eat for pleasure—I eat to survive. Most of the time, I’m at peace with that. But I’m also human. Every once in a while, I chase a memory—of a flavor, a texture, a feeling of fullness and satisfaction. The foods never taste the way I remember. And they always leave me in pain. Still, I miss the warmth of sloppy joes, the comfort of spaghetti with meat sauce, the heartiness of pot pies, and oh—how I miss chocolate and ice cream.
I do what I must. But until you’ve lost the simple joy of eating something you love and feeling good afterward, it’s hard to understand just how much that meant. What we used to call “comfort food” doesn’t bring comfort anymore. I miss that part of life—not just the food itself, but the memories, the moments, and the feeling of being full in the best possible way.
It seems like a very trivial thing to miss but consider how much of our lives we spend buying groceries, planning meals, prepping for meals, cooking, baking, and of course, eating. Going out to eat or sharing a meal with a friend is something that only happens a handful of time in year now. The warmth of a good meal with good friends and family is such a distant memory. It makes me smile the way good memories do, but I try really hard not to think about it too much.