Food

Weeks since last chemo infusion: 16.  Days without a serious fall: 12.

Note from Zelda: We recently had to reset the fall counter just shy of 100 days: I was brushing my teeth when I heard the now familiar, and always bone-chilling, sound of a body hitting the floor. I raced down the hall and saw Zach, face down on the carpet with his shirt pulled up over his head. He wasn’t moving. I called his name, and when I got to him, I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he said. He sure didn’t look fine, but I was relieved to hear him speak. My heart pounded as he started to pull himself up. He said he was taking off his shirt when he lost his balance. As he moved, we did a quick assessment. Did he hit his head? No. Does anything hurt? Not yet. He did seem fine, and unlike previous incidents, he was able to get up fairly easily using the door frame. But as we continued to check him out, I noticed blood on his elbow: A large section of skin had split open when he slid on the carpet. It took our biggest Band Aid to cover it. And that made the fall serious enough to reset the counter.

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Zelda: So much of what we do in life revolves around food. When I was growing up, if we weren't actively eating, we were planning for, shopping for, preparing, or cleaning up after (or, in my case throwing up after) a meal. And when we were done, we'd settle on the couch to watch TV with bowls of popcorn or ice cream in our laps.

Family adventures always included meals together. On Memorial Day, we’d leave flowers at gravesites in 3 local cemeteries, then stop for a huge breakfast at IHOP. A Saturday road trip was just an excuse to visit Dairy Queen for Blizzards or Peanut Buster Parfaits. And on Sundays, we’d have a big potluck dinner at grandma’s. Every family get together was an opportunity to eat together. 

Somewhere in there, teenage angst and body dysmorphia soured me on food and fed my distaste for celebrations like Thanksgiving. That holiday, in particular, left me with deep feelings of guilt and regret: I wasn't as grateful as I should have been for the turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy my mom and aunts slaved over. And I'd usually have multiple servings of pie and whipped cream, which I didn't need, but couldn't resist. I imagined all those calories going straight to my 16-year-old thunder thighs. And at the end of the day, I'd feel defeated, depressed, and uncomfortably full.

By contrast, Zach—a lifelong foodie—looked forward to every meal with child-like glee. He used to wake up in the morning and immediately ask me, “What do you want for dinner?” 

My mind would go blank as he recited the options he’d been dreaming about all night long. I’d usually choose whatever sounded easiest, and Zach would explain why something else was the better option. Then he’d spend most of the day in the kitchen (AKA, The Lab), experimenting and making the whole world smell delicious. 

With his love for food, Zach helped me develop healthier eating habits: More vegetables and fewer empty calories. We had regular sit-down meals on warm plates, and he even got me to try foods I'd always avoided, like salmon. Turns out, it's pretty tasty when you don't overcook it. Zach even got me to eat oysters—Rockefeller style and shooters! Talk about adventure! My tastebuds were finally coming to life.

I still had issues: I couldn't be trusted with a family-size bag of chips because I didn't (and still don't) have an off switch for junk food: I will keep eating until the bag is empty. And I much preferred having someone else in charge of the kitchen and the menu. In fact, when we'd go out to eat, I'd often ask Zach to order for me: That let him choose 2 entrees instead of just one, and gave the wait staff something to whisper about. "Check out table 23: The guy won't let his wife order her own food!" Little did they know...

That was before cancer took over our lives. These days, Zach rarely wakes up thinking about dinner. Our conversations about food, if we have them at all, go something like this:

Zelda: Can we talk about food?

Zach: No thanks.

Zelda: Still not hungry?

Zach: Not even a little bit. 

Zelda: But you need to eat.

Zach: And you need to fucking stop.

Zelda: I try to stop, but I still worry. According to his bloodwork, Zach’s protein levels are low. So we tested every nutritional supplement and shake we could find. Some were too sweet, too chalky, or too expensive. Eventually, we found one he’ll drink, and it gives him 80% of his daily protein requirement. Winner!

But old habits die slow, and Zach still goes through the weekly grocery flyer circling sale items that look good in the moment. And about once a week, he’ll have a kitchen day: chopping vegetables, making stock, or cooking up something amazing. But by the time it’s ready to eat, he’s lost interest. He'll plate the meal, and he might take a bite or two. But things don’t taste good to him any more, and his portion often goes straight to leftovers. And lately, it sits in the fridge until it grows hair and we have to toss it out.

So even if I somehow miraculously overcame my anxiety in the kitchen, and started making real meals, Zach probably wouldn’t eat what I made. And the thought of eating alone, while Zach is on the couch feeling miserable, makes me terribly sad. It sure as hell doesn’t make me feel like cooking. Instead, I’ll grab an apple and cheese, or drink one of Zach’s protein shakes if I feel hungry. 

Food has never been that exciting to me. But I truly loved watching Zach get excited about food. Whether he was explaining the science behind cooking eggs or searing an Ahi steak to perfection, Zach always put his whole heart into putting food on our table. 

Only now does it occur to me: The meals Zach used to make were savory and satisfying. But it was the love he poured into those meals that truly nourished my soul.

So, where does that leave Zach and me with food?

I keep hoping that Zach’s appetite will return, food will taste good to him again, and we'll get back to normal. But all the medications he’s been taking have wreaked havoc on his stomach—he practically lives on Alka Seltzer and Tums these days. And he’s pretty much lost interest in food. 

Zach made soup for dinner on Christmas. I had a small cup, but he didn’t feel like eating.

It breaks my heart, but I have to consider that this might be our new baseline.