Food and Freedom - the hospital journey continues

Going to the hospital farmer's market after not eating for three days.

Cheers everyone- Hope you all had good Thanksgivings. I have so much to be thankful for myself this week. I’ve come a long way in just a few days.

Start on this entry to catch up if you’re thinking, “wait WHAT!? Taylor is in the hospital??”: read here.

While my Thanksgiving holiday wasn’t traditional, at least I had one.

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Part 4 - Thanksgiving

Normally the day before Thanksgiving I’m quite busy.

Typically I’m finished shopping, having done that the day before and I’m in full prep-mode.

We tend to cook and host, which Zach and I enjoy. We both like to cook and I love any excuse to pull out my grandmother’s china. Beautiful plates with a dogwood flower on them. As well as her intricate glassware. As a kid, I remember eating fruit cocktail out of the champagne glasses as an appetizer every Thanksgiving.

These plates and glasses have been with me my entire life and I love the tradition of bringing them out, setting a beautiful table-scape, and dining with friends and family in the candlelight.

I’m no Martha Stewart, but I love to table-scape. I’m known to get quite whimsical with it. Not just flowers or candles, you’ll never know what I’ll include. If you sit at my table, you might discover a tiny toy woodland elk or giraffe on your plate.

As far as cooking, I tend to traditionally make the sides. The day before I’m making a very classic corn pudding. It’s a highlight of the plate - sweet and custardy and perfectly comforting. It’s a bit involved so I bake it the evening before and just heat it up when the turkey comes out.

I also like to make a fruit galette for dessert the night before. Nothing complicated - just fresh fruit and a pie crust and sugar and egg-wash. I carefully prep a couple cups of berries and nectarines and the crust. I stuff the pie crust and fold over the edges and pray I don’t have a “soggy bottom” as they say on the Great British Baking Show.

It comes out smelling so delicious, it’s hard to not want to gobble it up as the warm fruit caramel bubbles, inevitably leaking out a bit as if yearning for a dollop of cream.

But today, before me sits a tray of prepackaged beverages as I lay in my hospital bed. I peruse the options: excessively watery cream of wheat, milk, hot water for tea, yogurt, orange juice, and everyone’s favorite breakfast treat, Italian Ice. (Insert sarcasm).

Don’t get me wrong - I’m happy to have progressed to liquids after days of not-even-water. And yet, I’m not that hungry for the assortment. I eat about half the meal with my cinnamon tea and feel my pain lift after meds.

I want a smoothie.

When Zach arrives before lunch, my energy is high and I’m eager to move.

I get one of the highest honors a patient can receive in my mind at Cedars- the grey socks.

Normally, when you’re admitted you get access to yellow socks with tread so you don’t slip. But the grey socks are a privilege bestowed upon the very few.

You essentially get to walk wherever you want without assistance from the nursing team. It means they trust you not to fall, get lost, or make a run for it. If you’re wearing grey socks, no one stops you.

After a few laps of the hospital floor, we ventured outside. I pushed my IV along the way.

Healing felt good. I was strong (relatively speaking), my diet was progressing, and there was hope that I’d go home.

They said by lunch I could try solid food.

We crossed paths with my chaplain friend, Peggy, and we all strolled to the hospital’s weekly farmer’s market.

It was a surreal moment. Here I hadn’t eaten in days, and I’m surrounded on all sides by bountiful food: beautiful cabbages, whole carts of Greek dips, spicy dumplings, and tiny round Dutch pancakes called poffertjes.

I got a smoothie and it lit up my soul. The taste of strawberries and yogurt and oranges danced around my neurotransmitters like a Rockette kick line.

A woman beckoned us with free samples from her cart, “Try this!”

She handed Zach and I a little sample spoon of whipped cheese with candied citrus bits inside. I allowed myself the smallest bite, swirling the creamy sweet, fatty, and a little sour cheese on my tongue and again, brain-dancing.

“I’ll give you a discount because your wife is so hot,” she says to Zach. What a charmer, I thought. I’m in two hospitals gowns over my mesh undies, shoe-less, and on an IV in the middle of a farmers market - but God bless a good saleswoman.

As the stretch and ache in my surgical site began again, we wished Chaplain Peggy farewell as she bought a cabbage as big as my head. Zach snagged fried rice and as we left, I tried the incy-winciest bit of the poffertjes. They were like balls of funnel cake. It was my first solid food since Saturday night, and it’s Wednesday.

I could have started kick-lining with joy myself, it tasted so incredible.

When we return to the room, I’m still on a flavor-high as I dip grilled cheese into my matzo-ball soup for lunch. I gobbled it down as slowly but as eagerly as possible (if that makes sense). I didn’t want tummy troubles but it was difficult to contain my enthusiasm.

I love food. I love to eat. And I’m ever so grateful my stomach is beginning to work again.

They wait to see how my newly repaired digestive system reacts and by mid-afternoon the surgery team forecasts that I’ll likely spend tomorrow, Thanksgiving day, at home.

YES!!!!!!!!!!!

I give Zach the good news and we spend the evening waiting for the discharge. I eat dinner before I go, making two orders of the best dessert in the hospital- the warm chocolate chip cookie. I know the woman who brings the food trays from volunteering and she comes in with a big smile.

“Two cookies for you, my dear!”

Zach takes one and I bite into the other. Crispy on the outside, the inside is gooey and moist and the chocolate mashes sweetly between the crumbly cookie.

Sweet, melty chocolate chip healing - I survived again.

By 8pm I’m home, cuddling up with July.

In the morning, we watch the Macy’s parade and postpone our festivities a few more days. I rest and relax and sit next to the Christmas tree snuggling my family. My nervous system calms down from all the poking and prodding and fear and anxiety.

I’m okay. I made it.

From scary to safe, I feel so overwhelmed by the divide between extremes in the week. I start to cry before dinner from emotionally releasing the dissonance between normal life and extreme medical fear and trauma.

How do I wrap my head around how fine everything is now?

Where do I put these feelings?

I suppose I can put the feelings on a plate, swallow them whole, and put them in my belly to carry with me and let all the turmoil and trauma mend along with my abdominal surgical wounds.

Bon appetite and happy Thanksgiving. I can digest the feast and live another day.

YOU MAY HAVE MISSED IT

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If you’re new here and wondering, “what happened to this lady?” read:

I started writing this when I was on dialysis. It’s intended to be both memoir and a practical tool to help folks who might be going through something similar or those caregivers and family supporting someone with a challenging diagnosis. NOTE: This is not intended to replace actual medical guidance. Please consult your doctors on your individual challenges and situations. Please talk to your clinicians before adjusting any of your care protocols. Also names have been changed for most of my medical staff.

Thank you to Karen, a dear friend & new paid subscriber. I love you! So grateful you’re in our lives.

And another thank you to new paid subscriber, Barb - thank you for joining the RDG community and believing in my work.

Thank you to CC Couchois, Roy Lenn, and Dr. Richard Burwick for your founding level donation.