There is a poetic beauty when the arc of our life story loops back around to complete a once unfinished circle. Two years ago this month I wrote for the first time about my pain, and here we are, watching God continue that story with his perfect timing. 

This afternoon I went for a walk around Elmwood Village, here in the heart of Buffalo. The emergence of spring has local shops spilling out onto sidewalks, and on the grassy spaces between the old boulevards, happy parents tickle babies while laying idyllically on blankets. When I came back to the traffic circle near my apartment, I jogged between spinning cars (windows down, music loud) and came to rest on a curved metal bench in the shadow of a civil war monument. I sat peacefully and let that soft spring breeze toss my curls and lift the little hairs on my neck. Big deep breath. 

And that’s when I noticed that I wasn’t in pain. 

The muscles of my stomach weren’t tensed like a wall between me and the world, braced for an assault. I wasn’t clenching and unclenching my fists. I wasn’t wrapping my arms absentmindedly around my abdomen. I wasn’t bouncing my feet on the ground like I was ready to run at a moment’s notice. My eyes weren’t looking instinctively for a bathroom.

I wasn’t in pain and that felt like a miracle. So naturally, I texted my mother, who as a living miracle in my world, has always taken the phone calls where I breathe in whispered agony that I am having a flare. She has been on the phone, balanced on the edge of the sink while I vomit from the pain, making sure that I don’t pass out, and listening to my exhausted breath when I finally lay down on the cold tile floor. I figured that she deserved to hear about one sunny day when I wasn’t in pain.

This relief is tenuous, and hard-won. I have been working through a rigorous elimination diet with the help of a skilled, compassionate dietician. The goal is to manage my IBS and gastroparesis simultaneously and to improve my long term quality of life. This is another big step after years of working closely with doctors and surgeons and pharmacists. Now we get to integrate all of that work into how I will actually live for the rest of my life. 

At one of my last appointments with my gastroparesis doctor, he said that the cartons of formula that I was living on would be a great solution for my long term nutrition, as if anyone would look hopefully on a future of beige nutrient mixture poured out at every meal. I realized then that I needed to work with someone who would understand that eating delicious food is as much a part of my physical well-being as taking my heart medication everyday. I am so glad to have found a provider who understands that. 

I told someone recently that while I may have to put extra resources into understanding how best to fuel my body, we all have to do this work at some level. Food is (at times) frustratingly pervasive and touches every part of our life. We spend significant portions of our income buying it, we plan trips and evenings around consuming it, we fight about the ethics of it, we feel guilty about eating it, we are comforted by it, and we are reminded every time we take a bite that we are just little creatures who would fall over without our manna. 

Wherever you are with food these days, I hope that it makes your body and your mind and your heart feel good. I hope that you can sit down with a bowl of salt and vinegar potato chips, or kale, or a beautiful fillet of salmon, or a big piece of deep, dark chocolate cake. I hope that every bite feels precious and that you find joy in the gift of eating something delicious. For my friends who can’t do those things right now, I’m praying for you. Losing food is a big, deep grief that can feel overwhelming. I’m praying that you can find joy in other things, and that you know just how strong, and resilient, and miraculous you are. 

In a couple of weeks, I get to start adding foods back in to gauge my tolerance to specific types of carbohydrates and proteins. I’m looking forward to trying avocados and sourdough bread again (and later some of that chocolate cake). If I’ve learned anything from the last two years, it’s that every bite really is a blessing, and that every moment without pain is like coming up for air after a long time underwater. I’m going to float on the surface with my face to the sun for as long as I possibly can.

Ansley Kelly

Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.