During my teenage years, I found solace in the soothing voice of Rachael Ray. As I lay in a children’s hospital, filled with disdain for its plaid curtains and well-meaning nurses, her velvety contralto became the soundtrack to my days. My time in the hospital was marked by weeks of morphine-induced haze, drifting in and out of consciousness amidst a tangle of tubes and wires. While my body fought against an unknown invader, I found myself captivated by the tiny television set that provided me with a culinary education.
What stands out most vividly from that time is the constant hunger. I was literally starving. However, I had the Food Network to keep me company. Following the doctor’s orders, I consumed next to nothing. I didn’t even indulge in a sip of ginger ale, a bite of a cracker, or an ice chip. This was my initiation into a forced state of asceticism, a necessity for my body ravaged by an undiagnosed disease. The hunger pangs became a part of me, a constant reminder of my depleted state.
My digestive system was too inflamed and unreliable to handle nutrition through traditional means. The medical team explained in a casual manner, as if they could simply stroll down to the cafeteria for a sandwich, that my digestive tract needed time to “cool down” and recover. Hence, the only way to achieve this was to avoid consuming food orally. My fate was N.P.O., a Latin abbreviation meaning “nothing by mouth.” This diet, or rather, lack thereof, was the first step towards restoring the elusive homeostasis that my irate system desperately craved.
Eventually, I received the unglamorous diagnosis of Crohn’s disease. It was one of those chronic, incurable conditions that required constant management and could cause lengthy periods of physical and financial hardship, known as flares. Without food, I felt like a half-human, half-robot. Angst coursed through my veins, while machines pumped nutrition intravenously into my frail body in a process called T.P.N., or total parenteral nutrition. T.P.N. was a common treatment for severe Crohn’s flares, providing a respite for my colon as it bypassed the digestive system. Such luxury.
As the days went on, I lost the appearance of a fully nourished and sane individual and transformed into a being driven solely by desire. My bones were visible, and my thighs no longer touched. In this state, I became obsessed with the idea of food and thoughts of my favorite meals. Roast beef, buttery potatoes, and juicy, mouth-watering burgers that required an abundance of napkins. It bewildered those around me, but my obsession with the Food Network only grew stronger.
Instead of savoring actual food, my only sustenance came from watching Paula Deen add pounds of butter to a cake recipe or witnessing Sandra Lee whip up a deliciously semi-homemade dish. Even Emeril Lagasse’s energetic “Bam!” resonated deeply, despite the fog of opioid medication. Watching Rachael Ray create something “delish” became a lustful experience during those hours spent rotting away in my hospital bed.
Days blended together without the familiar markers of mealtimes. Instead, I became reliant on carefully timed doses of pain medication, always yearning for more. I was enveloped in a chemical cocoon that provided a false sense of contentment, only realizing years later that what I mistook for happiness was merely the state of being high.
I sought comfort in the trusted company of my beloved TV hosts: Rachael, Emeril, Sandra, and Paula. As the sun set, its rays bathed the hospital room, casting a luminous glow on the TV screen. In the embrace of sleep aids, I would curl up and enter a zone of semiconsciousness, free from pain, with dreams of meals, Coca-Cola, and a satisfied stomach. The Food Network shows, with their vibrant colors and tantalizing displays of perfectly cooked chickens, became a substitute for my unmet primal needs.
I endured the monotonous drudgery of doctors and medical residents poking and prodding at me, promising that a few more days without food would yield results. This cycle continued for weeks, with starts and stops along the way. Rare moments of indulgence when I was allowed to consume delectable treats like chicken broth and lemon water ice were swiftly followed by excruciating pain and life-threatening complications, forcing me back to square one.
I transformed into an animal fixated on food, with a vanilla pudding cup becoming my prey and unsuspecting nurses like Liz acting as messengers. If I caught a whiff of food, I would revert to a raving miscreant, screaming at visitors who had the audacity to bring food near me, ordering them out of my room. I resented those who could effortlessly tend to their basic needs.
Psychologists and therapists attempted to teach me breathing techniques and coping mechanisms, but I scoffed at their efforts, responding with teenage-girl laughter and eye rolls. While my muscles wasted away, my middle finger remained intact and functional. Now, more than ever, the reliable TV hosts who effortlessly grilled and baked became my trusted companions. How dare Ina Garten deny me a decent meal!
It is challenging to pinpoint the exact moment when food regained its status as something good, a source of pleasure rather than pain. Living with a never-ending illness renders the concept of “before” and “after” irrelevant. It requires caring for my body like tending to a garden, with careful daily maintenance and attention.
I often refer to myself as having two jobs. First, I work at a newspaper during the day. Secondly, I am the secretary of myself and my body. This role encompasses navigating the complex healthcare system, raising hell with insurance agents over the phone, and skillfully budgeting for unexpected medical emergencies. One wrong move could trigger a Crohn’s flare or result in overwhelming medical bills.
There came a time, after my initial hospital stay, when food ceased to be the enemy and transformed into a benign suitor. After months of enduring feeding tubes, stomach pumping, helicopter “life flights,” and surgery, I finally began to recover from my illness. The medication appeared to be working, and the tiresome doctor’s visits, despite their procedural nuisances, were proving helpful.
I regained the ability to eat in a “normal” manner, relishing small bites of pizza, greasy chicken tenders, crisp apples adorned with peanut butter, and my all-time favorite treats. The saccharine taste of Diet Coke and the kick of cheap black coffee were everyday luxuries. Rachael Ray, Ina Garten, and Emeril Lagasse still graced my TV screen, but now I could run to the fridge whenever I pleased.
Annie Tressler is currently employed as a corporate communications manager at The New York Times.
Denial of responsibility! VigourTimes is an automatic aggregator of Global media. In each content, the hyperlink to the primary source is specified. All trademarks belong to their rightful owners, and all materials to their authors. For any complaint, please reach us at – [email protected]. We will take necessary action within 24 hours.
