I check my watch as I amble slowly towards Breslin Hall. It’s Friday—the last one of the academic semester. My junior year is winding down and I can’t fathom that college is nearly over. My eyes squint as I head past the law school library, sun shining the brightest I can recall since it was summer. Today is a lunch day in our advanced essay class. Free food to college student is as drugs are to an addict, but not for me.
As we all convene on the grassy quad, blankets are laid down in preparation of the feast that will soon be before us. Today’s spread is from a Jamaican Jerk restaurant. When it arrives, the aroma is its first, most notable attribute. The heat of the day amplifies the exotic scent of that tickles my nose. I take in a whiff of the pepper—delicious pepper-curried everything—it was intoxicating. While my nose basks in the aroma, my stomach rips me back to harsh reality. My senses beg for indulgence, but I know better. Food is the apple and I am Eve.
It was November 24, 2010. Two months into my freshman year of college, and I was home for the first time since I started at Hofstra. I was thrilled to see my friends and exchange harebrained first-year college stories. It was a nice night, right up until the end. As most college students do, I liked to eat. Life was such paradise; I consumed whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Thus, the platter of succulent Southwest eggrolls placed in my friend’s kitchen didn’t go unnoticed—more than anything I wish it had.
On my drive home that night, I was plagued with heartburn worse than anything I’d ever felt. I could barely breathe. When I made it home, I tossed back some TUMS. Without even an attempt to climb the stair to my room I passed out on the couch in my living room, coat still on. But sleep’s relief was not in the cards. I awoke not long after and knew, the night was going to be horrible.
The heartburn had worsened, and it was all but inevitable—I was going to throw up. I paced my way around the kitchen, sipping water, praying to whatever or whoever that the pain would simply go away. Taking deep breaths, each wrought with stabbing chest pain worse than the gasp before, I woke my mother. “Are you okay?” she asked. No, I was not. But before I could answer, it came.
I ran to the bathroom and relief, the kind you wish would never come, poured out in a surreal nightmare that is hazy even now. I was crying, couldn’t breathe, and my chest was on fire. Again and again it happened. It was a traumatic Thanksgiving. I’ve not been able to look at Southwest eggrolls since. The very thought of any combination of chicken, beans, rice, tomatoes, or chipotle ranch sickens me. Recollections of these events created a view of hell that keeps me from pandering to the whims of my taste buds’ temptations.
“No, I’m fine,” I say as my classmates encourage me to try the mild Jamaican rice and beans. Who knows what that could do to me… This is my life now. I must refuse to give in to any craving for fear of repeating that Thanksgiving’s mistake. I fantasize about a day when I can eat whatever I want, but for now, gluttony is not an option.
After that Thanksgiving, I returned to school, but not to normal. Nausea became an everyday occurrence, and heartburn accompanied every meal. I cut out every food that brought on discomfort until I was left with buttered bagels, nothing else. My social life disappeared with the indigestion. I was afraid to leave my room—what if I got sick in public? That was just not an option.
When four months had gone by and nothing changed, I started to feel completely hopeless. At one point, after having gone days without eating anything but bagels, I broke down in the shower of my freshman suite. I had to do something, so I called a gastroenterologist. As I entered his office, I felt a sense of optimism that had been missing for months. Unfortunately, after the appointment I would regret getting my hopes up. Dr. Shusil Sharma listened to my heartbeat with a stethoscope, asked me some questions, then told me to stop taking all of my prescriptions. It was a fifteen-minute consultation that yielded no information.
I did what he said, and stopped all prescriptions. There was still no change. After this, I found a new doctor, Patricia Raymond. She performed an upper G.I. endoscopy. This revealed I had abnormal stomach folds; but again, there was no definitive answer as to why I couldn’t eat. I dropped twenty pounds, and I was always hungry but constantly terrified of what would happen if I did anything to quell my appetite.
So here I am nearly three years later, at a beautiful picnic with my class. I watch as the container of yellow, curried lamb makes its way around to everyone’s plates. The sharp smell, so distinctly delicious, is nothing but a tease. I consider for a moment taking a piece, just little bite. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. The penance for this sin of succulence is one I won’t endure.
writing simply is 