If you read that in (my intermediate-level) French, it means “Goodbye to bread.”
If you read that in Franglais (French/English), it means goodbye to pain.
Either way is accurate—I hope.
I had an appointment with a gastro yesterday, and he said that my blood test indicated it was pretty likely I had celiac, and he wanted an endoscopy to know for sure. I maintained my composure, and asked how soon I could get the endoscopy—I just wanted answers, I said. I spoke with his receptionist and she said I could either go in late September or this morning—he’d had some cancelations. I agreed that I’d go right away, that I wanted to get it over with. I stayed strong until she handed me the pamphlet detailing the procedure, but then I started crying.
I know there are things that are way worse than celiac, but it’s still a scary thing to me. Even if I don’t often eat bread and pasta right now, at least I have the freedom to. The freedom to eat chicken fingers if I want to. To drink beer. (My dad’s already looked up gluten-free beer for me. Also, there’s no gluten in hard cider. FYI.)
So last night, knowing I had this test on the horizon, I had a wonderful beer with Lacey and then we ate lots of pasta with my mom, who accompanied me to my procedure this morning.
Orecchiette with sausage and broccoli rabe
Penne with vodka. (This is seriously one of my favorite pasta dishes, but it’s usually too rich for me to enjoy. I threw a little caution to the wind last night.)
While I haven’t found out for sure that I have celiac, I’m definitely going to start transitioning to a gluten-free diet to see if I feel better. If you have any tips OR questions, I’d love to hear from you.