Editor's note: #BecauseGluten is a semi-regular column chronicling CL A&E Editor Cathy Salustri's journey into an involuntary gluten-free lifestyle. She had been taking her recent celiac diagnosis kinda hard — but now…
You guys are awesome. Have I told you that lately?
Since I started writing about the intense drama I've brought to this gluten-free style of living, I've been touched by the number of you who've reached out to me to offer advice, product suggestions or simply share your story.
I kind of feel bad for new celiac diagnoses who don't have you near them.
Yes, I'm at acceptance. Yes, it still sucks. No, it doesn't suck as much as I thought it would, but sometimes I break into a cold sweat realizing I will never eat a Big Mac at 11 p.m. on a Friday night again, or that washing down a day on the boat with a Bud Light Lime is a thing of the past.
It is what it is. And y'all have actually made it easier.
Acceptance, it turns out, works a lot better when you have a good support network. I'm no longer yelling at waitstaff for asking if I'm gluten-free, and I've stopped giving Barry dirty looks when he eats bread. My goal is to never be this guy (see below), and if I do start to act like this, I'm hoping you'll give me a giant bitch-slap.
So where do I go now? I'm probably not done ranting and raving (this goes for everything, not simply celiac disease), but that's not fun to read on a regular basis. Instead, I'm embarking on the great gluten-free adventure, seeking out local gluten-free things. For example, I passed an — ahem — adult novelty store, and on their marquee they bragged "gluten-free and vegan options." I was on the phone, so I simply pointed to the sign so Barry could see it.
"You want me to stop?" he asked. I was on a business call, so I shook my head. But I sort of did want to stop. The sign made me curious: Does one absorb gluten vaginally? Or do they have gluten-free edible panties?
These are the sorts of tough questions I'll ask over the coming months. And, by all means, keep that advice — and your questions — coming.
People keep asking me if I feel any different, and when I tell them no, it's almost as if they're disappointed. Remember, though — I didn't feel bad before. I only went down this road of testing because I developed, at age 43, osteoporosis and severe anemia. Yes, I had what my family calls "The Salustri Stomach," which meant every time I had too much stress, I'd get physically ill. (I even have a chair one of my friends calls "The Vomit Chair," because following each downturn in a doomed relationship, I'd go to her house and, well, usually end up puking). But since most of my family has this malady, it seemed normal.
That's gone away, which is nice, to say the least. And, you know, hopefully at some point my bones will stop turning to powder and I won't have to take 50 vitamins in the morning and get iron infusions every few months. It'd be great not to live like a bedridden 98-year-old.
If that means no more Big Macs, well, I'll take it.
This article appears in Mar 9-16, 2017.