Lactose intolerance and me

Believe it or not, this and the previous entry are linked, somehow.

I never officially got a diagnosis of lactose intolerance. But growing up with my mother and my older aunts, discussions about stomach ailments were legion. Digestive digressions. Medical terms half-remembered, out of context, but ominously inflected. "Heliobacteria." "Ulcer." "Sigmoidoscopy." Self-reported ratings of upper vs lower GI examinations. (Evidently the lower is more challenging, though the geography still escapes me. Is it counterintuitive, in the way that the definitions of Lower and Upper Egypt were? Is the analogy of the river correct? What precisely is the source and what is the delta in this strained metaphor?)

So I did grow up with some paranoia and perhaps even hypochondria regarding things stomach-related. These seemed to be borne out by a tendency to fart intensely at school. Rare was the audible, public trumpet, though I sweat now, dear Reader, when I think about that terrible afternoon in the high school library when I was suddenly surprised by a loud one, leaving me hovering two inches above the unforgiving wooden chair, my face the only answer needed by the thirty faces turning with a united question.

Less publicly, but no less to my shame, was first period sophomore year. World History Honors, first period. I sat near the front, and the damnable infernal chairs were made of hard plastic and metal. No cushions. I tried valiantly to preserve my classmates from what seemed like roomfuls of foul fumes, especially as these represented the brightest and, in many cases, most attractive members of my graduating class.

If they ever let on, they never told me. I feel especially sorry for Julie. I think you sat behind me, either directly or one chair back. So if you ever wondered

IT WAS I

I was the flatulent fiend
I was the malefactor of mists
I was the Boyd bombardier
I was the doubled-over, thrice-damned doofus
I was the gastard
I was the shart attack
I was the World War I recreationist

If you didn't get an A in that class, I was probably the reason.

I don't know how I connected my challenges to the milk I was drinking in the morning (accompanying a reasonably priced and nutritionally questionable school breakfast). But at some point, before graduation, I did, and didn't look back. What lay behind, other than shame, smells, and stains?

So yes, if you are facing the perils of lactose intolerance, I empathize. Like the smog of 1970s Los Angeles, it colored my experiences in high school, its social and psychological scars lingering like a brown dog, at once familiar and repugnant. This was pre-Lactaid (or at least pre- my understanding of medical options). Consider yourself blessed that opportunities abound, not only for probiotic remedies, but also cow milk substitutes.

There may come a day when public and unremitting flatulence is no longer a source of shame, and perhaps even a source of some energy. But today is not that day. Learn from my mistakes, educate yourself, and do your best to live a normal, healthy life.