On November the something or other, I go for a follow up appointment with the gut doctor. He will tell me that I am indeed allergic to wheat, barley and rye and that those things are in an awful lot of food, and laugh in my increasingly emaciated face. He'll then refer me to a dietitian, and God knows how long it'll take to see him. I was told I'd have my results within 14 days, but it's been 37 and no sign so far. But when I finally do see the dietitian (by the time Romney's invaded Canada at this rate) then they'll say stay away from the gluten, because if you munch it down then you'll get bowel cancer and osteoporosis. Then they'll send me back to my GP who will write out a prescription for me. There is no cure (they're working on one) for Coeliac's disease, so what could this prescription be for? It'd be for gluten free bread, pasta, flour and bourbons. That's bourbons as in the biscuits, sadly, not as in the whisky. I do like the idea of going to the chemists and picking up 250cc's of Tagliatelle and 50cc's of sticky buns. Actually, maybe not, as I just read this article. If the NHS are going to get utterly ripped off by companies with things that I could buy for a fraction of the cost, then I might not in all good conscience be able to go along with that. I shall use that as the justification I need to obtain a disabled railcard (for the epilepsy).
I was happy to note a bit of personal growth for me yesterday. I went past a bakery and caught the strongest smell of freshly baked cakeys, and I smiled and walked on. There was a time when if thoughts would kill, anyone holding a pastry within thirty miles of me would have been a twitching corpse, riddled with mind bullets. This, then, is progress. Now if I can just stop hanging around the supermarket cake aisle screaming at the ceiling "Why, God, why", then I'll have it cracked.
Today's Tune
Showing posts with label coeliac. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coeliac. Show all posts
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
In Which I Discover Another of My Limitations
I was getting "my bits" from the shoppington the other day to facilitate the making of jerked pork belly with potato and pea mash up. Every so often, I will realise another thing that I cannot eat due to having some sort of idiot immune system that thinks that some foods are poison. There are the obvious ones, like I won't be having any pastries or breads or cereals anytime soon. I know this. I mean, I'm still sorry enough for myself to bang on about it, but I know this, I am slowly coming to terms with it. But sometimes I will just think "Oh, _____ is full of gluten, so I can't have that again." It's the more quiet foods, not the ones you subsist off, but the little treats. One day out of nowhere, my brain said to me "D'you know what? You can't ever have a samosa again, so fuck you!". I was reeling from this body blow when my sadistic (masochistic?) mind followed up with "Or onion bhajis, you fucking r-tard!" Coupled with the fact I can't have naan or pitta, my side order options at Indian restaurants are rapidly evaporating. Another time I realised that I can't have flapjacks, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats. Now I genuinely can't remember the last time I had flapjacks, but it's always nice to have the option. They're probably amongst the first dishes I concocted. Really easy to do, you know, what with them essentially being syrup and oats.
ANYWAY. In the supermarket the other day, for some reason they had eggs, flour, sugar and lemon next to each other... Brain processes this. Something wrong. Ingredients not bad in and of themselves, apart from flour... Yet feel uneasy. Why are they all there together like that, it's not pancake Tueoh FUCK I CAN'T EAT PANCAKES EVER AGAIN! ARGGHHHH!!!... Now pancakes shouldn't be such a big loss- I only eat them on the one legally stipulated day the state sets aside for them. Although it's known by most as Pancake Tuesday, a select few refer to it as Shrove Tuesday, because, y'know, shroves and pancakes. Regardless of what we call it, we're ALL good Christians in Britain. Why else would we all scoff our faces full of pancakes on the day before six weeks of grumbly bellies? This period is called Lent, as in I Lent all my food to that Dawn French and I'm beginning to think I'm not going to get it back. What with us being good Christians, we are obliged to go on a hunger strike for forty days until the day before Christ got murdered by the Romans. Now you know that there's a certain feeling that some Catholics (whose church is centred in Italy) aren't so keen on the Jews? Mel Gibson should have an honourable mention, and as for his Dad... Well he makes Mel look like the Pope. The point is, the Jews get a lot of bad press. But who was the governing force? It was the Romans, whose centre of administration was in Italy. Essentially, despite the Romans actually nailing the son of God to a two by four and them spearing him in the side to make sure they're dead, despite this they seem to have convinced that the Jews are to blame. There's a shed load of anti-semitism around the world. What do we think when we see an Italian? Nice food, and I hope you don't try and have sex with my daughter. Not fair. Anyway, here is the traditional shirt that all of us good British Christians wear on Easter Friday to celebrate the crucifixion of God's son. You have to understand, we'd only be doing that to make sure he saves our sins double quick this time. Help your fellow man.
Right. I believe I was procuring ingredients for jerked pork and 'ting. Go to pay and am asked by the checkout monkey if I would like any help packing. There's only five items there, I can put them in the bag I've brought along with me (save the planet, yeah?), so I tell him that I'm all right thanks. Then I ask him "Have you got a mystery shopper coming in or something?" "Mmm?" "It's just that I noticed you asked me if I wanted help with my packing." (Please note, this was more curious in nature than passive aggressive) "Yes, well we're all supposed to ask you..." "I know that, but you actually asked me, most don't bother." "Well, it's better for me just to follow company policy." He paused, seemed to have a think before deciding to confide in me "Actually, we're supposed to offer you help with your packing even if you've only one item." Now this made a part of me feel rather sorry for these poor employees who have to toe the line. It also gave a much bigger part of me an idea- namely going there, buying a stick of gum and then kicking off when they don't offer to pack it for me. I wonder what it's like to not be a bastard?
Today's Tune
 | ||
| I don't remember my flapjacks turning out like this, though. |
ANYWAY. In the supermarket the other day, for some reason they had eggs, flour, sugar and lemon next to each other... Brain processes this. Something wrong. Ingredients not bad in and of themselves, apart from flour... Yet feel uneasy. Why are they all there together like that, it's not pancake Tueoh FUCK I CAN'T EAT PANCAKES EVER AGAIN! ARGGHHHH!!!... Now pancakes shouldn't be such a big loss- I only eat them on the one legally stipulated day the state sets aside for them. Although it's known by most as Pancake Tuesday, a select few refer to it as Shrove Tuesday, because, y'know, shroves and pancakes. Regardless of what we call it, we're ALL good Christians in Britain. Why else would we all scoff our faces full of pancakes on the day before six weeks of grumbly bellies? This period is called Lent, as in I Lent all my food to that Dawn French and I'm beginning to think I'm not going to get it back. What with us being good Christians, we are obliged to go on a hunger strike for forty days until the day before Christ got murdered by the Romans. Now you know that there's a certain feeling that some Catholics (whose church is centred in Italy) aren't so keen on the Jews? Mel Gibson should have an honourable mention, and as for his Dad... Well he makes Mel look like the Pope. The point is, the Jews get a lot of bad press. But who was the governing force? It was the Romans, whose centre of administration was in Italy. Essentially, despite the Romans actually nailing the son of God to a two by four and them spearing him in the side to make sure they're dead, despite this they seem to have convinced that the Jews are to blame. There's a shed load of anti-semitism around the world. What do we think when we see an Italian? Nice food, and I hope you don't try and have sex with my daughter. Not fair. Anyway, here is the traditional shirt that all of us good British Christians wear on Easter Friday to celebrate the crucifixion of God's son. You have to understand, we'd only be doing that to make sure he saves our sins double quick this time. Help your fellow man.
Right. I believe I was procuring ingredients for jerked pork and 'ting. Go to pay and am asked by the checkout monkey if I would like any help packing. There's only five items there, I can put them in the bag I've brought along with me (save the planet, yeah?), so I tell him that I'm all right thanks. Then I ask him "Have you got a mystery shopper coming in or something?" "Mmm?" "It's just that I noticed you asked me if I wanted help with my packing." (Please note, this was more curious in nature than passive aggressive) "Yes, well we're all supposed to ask you..." "I know that, but you actually asked me, most don't bother." "Well, it's better for me just to follow company policy." He paused, seemed to have a think before deciding to confide in me "Actually, we're supposed to offer you help with your packing even if you've only one item." Now this made a part of me feel rather sorry for these poor employees who have to toe the line. It also gave a much bigger part of me an idea- namely going there, buying a stick of gum and then kicking off when they don't offer to pack it for me. I wonder what it's like to not be a bastard?
Today's Tune
Friday, 14 September 2012
In Which My Love for the NHS is Unrequited
Right, let's start off with caveats. I'm probably not going to give you any new blogs wot my brain wrote because from today until Monday I will be drinking with D, drinking with D, being hungover and having an endoscopy, because I have a suspected gluten intolerance/ coeliac's disease. I certainly hope it's that, because otherwise it's something potentially more killy. Having said that, it is a bit of a setback. It means that as a rule I can't eat pasta or bread or cake or battered cod or samosas or biscuits or pies or soy sauce or cereals or most sauces or oats or french fries (I just found this one out. Not such a biggy, they're just Liberace chips). I also cannot drink beer. I rationalise this and consider what I can have, which is meat and fish, fruit and veg, rice and eggies. I can also have Free From products, a token area of such limited space that it makes this particular coeliac disease sufferer miserable. Still, I should look on the bright side. It's probably for the best that they don't have much food, because what they have tends to be bloody awful. That, or they're offering free from products like baked beans at extortionate sums when you could buy Heinz baked beans for much cheaper and they don't have gluten or flour in anyway. But it's not that bad. However, if I was unable to have even one of the holy trinity of spuds, rice or meat I would have to go and kill someone. Probably Hugh Dallas. Anyway, I say I can't have these products, but I can. It'll just mean I'll feel rather nauseous and tired because of my inability to process all food properties and that the lining of my oesophagus will be irreparably eaten away by excess stomach acid. Still, I should be grateful. In some people the symptoms include a tendency to shit oneself.
It's actually a quasi interesting story as to how I found out that I (probably) have coeliac's. I'd got blood tests done because I wasn't feeling right and then rung up my GP for the results and he said they were all clear. Then when I popped off to Colchester to the neurologist, he told me that the symptoms of smelling burnt toast and having "auras" was nothing to do with my coeliac's disease.
"My what, sorry?"
"Your gluten intolerance, that's irrelevant to this."
"Hold the fucking phone a second, Mr Brain Doctor, I want to clear something up here. I'm allergic to gluten?"
"Er, that's what your bloodwork indicates, yes."
"Well that's a bit of a shitter isn't it? They told me the tests were negative. I am slightly vexed because someone, as you say in the medical business, has fucked up royally."
"You should feel lucky, there are thousands of people out there who don't know they have coeliac's."
"Those people are vomiting and shitting themselves constantly and haven't the intelligence required to call the doctor to tell them that they think something's wrong because they are vomiting and shitting themselves constantly. So you're saying I should feel lucky because there are a bunch of other people suffering from this but they're not diagnosed because they're FUCKHEADS?!?"
"I'm not sure I like your tone, sir. I certainly don't like the way you've picked up that lancet and taken that nurse hostage."
"What's the worst I could do with it, give her a paper cut? It's a fucking magazine!"
"That's a clever bit of wordplay sir, I bet if you ever came to write about this it would be a bit self indulgent to include it. Not enough people would get it without having to look it up."
"Regardless of how much my future writing is a masturbatory aid, the point remains that I'm a little peeved you're telling me I should be grateful that I'm diseased when the NHS SPECIFICALLY told me I wasn't."
So anyway, won't be writing on Monday because I will be sedated up to the tits whilst having a camera inserted down my gullet into my duodenum, where they will cut bits out of me for analysis. I hope it's down my gullet, anyway. I don't think there'd be enough sedatives in the world if they went via a different route...
*EDIT After someone researched it for me, I found out that Coeliac's can actually cause the symptoms I've been having and that it's not uncommon for the effects to be neurological. The epilepsy medication may have had no effect because I may not have epilepsy, and I may have been getting better because I've cut gluten out of my diet at exactly the same time as I started pill popping Lamotrigine. But it can't be that it's a gluten intolerance that caused all of this. After all, a specialist told me it wasn't JUST BY LOOKING AT ME.
Today's Tune
It's actually a quasi interesting story as to how I found out that I (probably) have coeliac's. I'd got blood tests done because I wasn't feeling right and then rung up my GP for the results and he said they were all clear. Then when I popped off to Colchester to the neurologist, he told me that the symptoms of smelling burnt toast and having "auras" was nothing to do with my coeliac's disease.
"My what, sorry?"
"Your gluten intolerance, that's irrelevant to this."
"Hold the fucking phone a second, Mr Brain Doctor, I want to clear something up here. I'm allergic to gluten?"
"Er, that's what your bloodwork indicates, yes."
"Well that's a bit of a shitter isn't it? They told me the tests were negative. I am slightly vexed because someone, as you say in the medical business, has fucked up royally."
"You should feel lucky, there are thousands of people out there who don't know they have coeliac's."
"Those people are vomiting and shitting themselves constantly and haven't the intelligence required to call the doctor to tell them that they think something's wrong because they are vomiting and shitting themselves constantly. So you're saying I should feel lucky because there are a bunch of other people suffering from this but they're not diagnosed because they're FUCKHEADS?!?"
"I'm not sure I like your tone, sir. I certainly don't like the way you've picked up that lancet and taken that nurse hostage."
"What's the worst I could do with it, give her a paper cut? It's a fucking magazine!"
"That's a clever bit of wordplay sir, I bet if you ever came to write about this it would be a bit self indulgent to include it. Not enough people would get it without having to look it up."
"Regardless of how much my future writing is a masturbatory aid, the point remains that I'm a little peeved you're telling me I should be grateful that I'm diseased when the NHS SPECIFICALLY told me I wasn't."
So anyway, won't be writing on Monday because I will be sedated up to the tits whilst having a camera inserted down my gullet into my duodenum, where they will cut bits out of me for analysis. I hope it's down my gullet, anyway. I don't think there'd be enough sedatives in the world if they went via a different route...
*EDIT After someone researched it for me, I found out that Coeliac's can actually cause the symptoms I've been having and that it's not uncommon for the effects to be neurological. The epilepsy medication may have had no effect because I may not have epilepsy, and I may have been getting better because I've cut gluten out of my diet at exactly the same time as I started pill popping Lamotrigine. But it can't be that it's a gluten intolerance that caused all of this. After all, a specialist told me it wasn't JUST BY LOOKING AT ME.
Today's Tune
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