The trouble started with a milkshake.
I was out at a diner with my best friend, passing the time as 17-year-olds do.
But less than a minute after I’d gulped down the mixture of milk and ice cream, I was in the restroom in distress.
I ultimately righted the ship and made my way back to the diner booth. But as my friend checked in on how I was doing, I recalled that the last milkshake I’d consumed had led to a similar outcome.
That incident had seemed like a one-off. But now, I sensed it was a start of a trend.
Maybe I’m allergic to dairy, I mused.
After a few doctor’s consultations and an experimental diet, I got the diagnosis: Severe lactose intolerance.
I was going to need to take milkshakes off the menu. And pizza. And sub sandwiches with melted provolone.
Or perhaps not.
You see, there was a supplement called Lactaid on the market that promised to help afflicted souls like me. It helped to break down the lactose in dairy products. And it quickly became part of my life.
Day after day, I would carry packets of Lactaid pills in my wallet or pants pockets. I’d swallow one at the start of each meal and then consume the same dairy-filled delicacies I’d always enjoyed.
But after about five years of this, the magic wore off. Even with the assistance of Lactaid, I found myself distressed by dairy. I had to give it all up, cold turkey.
I was devastated.
These days, dairy-free diets are all the rage. And a ton of dairy substitutes have hit the market.
People can sip a latte, devour pizza, or enjoy an ice cream like dessert without ever ingesting something that originated from a cow’s udder.
But back when I went dairy-free, the landscape looked quite different. Just about every restaurant dish seemed to be coated in milk, cheese, or butter. And most of the times that my employer offered a group lunch, it consisted of pizza.
It didn’t help that I was making this dietary change in Texas, where queso and cream gravy are practically cornerstones of the five food groups. But regardless, I was low on options and high on angst.
I’d grown up on dairy delicacies. I knew what I was missing out on. And it was tearing me apart.
Why me? I’d muse, as I went with a second-rate choice off the menu, just to avoid getting sick.
Why me? I’d muse, as I threw away a takeout order that had been tainted with cheese, against my explicit instructions.
Why me? I’d muse as I went hungry during a group lunch because there was nothing safe for me to chow down on.
It was miserable in those early days. But I eventually shifted my tune.
This was my lot in life, I reminded myself. No good would come from complaining about it.
That lactose intolerance diagnosis was one of the first big setbacks in my life. But it was far from the last.
Over the ensuing years, I’ve been saddled with multiple injuries, ailments, and undesirable circumstances. These issues have generally struck without warning, leading to sudden incapacitation.
As I’ve worked through the hurdles of shifted routines, canceled plans, and impaired function, I’ve often been tempted to ask Why me?
After all, I know exactly what I was missing out on, each time. And that makes the pill even harder to swallow.
But I only allow myself to mope like this for a fleeting moment. For I have learned to shift the narrative.
Yes, I’ve convinced myself that these are not setbacks to rue. Instead, they’re experiences to tout.
They’re a part of my story. And it’s my duty to tell that tale well.
Imagining life without a dairy sensitivity might seem convenient. But that condition has led me to be more organized and thoughtful about what I put in my body. And that focus on wellness has undoubtedly made me healthier today that I’d otherwise have been.
Imagining a scenario where I didn’t require ankle surgery sounds idyllic. But without that ordeal, I wouldn’t have learned what I was made of. I wouldn’t have understood the challenges of life with a disability. And I wouldn’t have felt the sweet satisfaction of getting my range of motion back.
Imagining a world where I didn’t get cut from the baseball team, laid off from my job, or passed over for another – all of that sounds dreamy. But without those setbacks, I likely wouldn’t have built up the grit that defines my present-day success.
The dairy sensitivity, the ankle procedure, all the other hardships I’ve endured – they’re a part of who I am now. I’ve come to embrace that fact.
Causes have effects. And I have better things to do than question them.
As I write this, I’m battling a bit of a health issue.
I won’t get into specifics here about my new affliction. But I will say that this issue came out of the blue, is relatively uncommon, and has forced some changes to my daily life.
This new ailment seems a lot like my dairy sensitivity. And yet, its effects are a bit harder to sidestep.
This whole situation is ripe for the why me question once again. A perfect storm of buzzard’s luck and isolating consequences have rocked me to the core. The sentiment of injustice has hit me from all angles.
And yet, despite the barrage of pills and the lingering discomfort and the cloud of uncertainty, I’m blocking out the siren song of woe. I’m keeping my head out of the sand.
For what’s done is done. There’s no good in re-litigating the flukes of the past.
My mission now is to determine what this affliction means moving forward. For my life, and for how I recount it.
Solving that puzzle brings clarity to the chaos. It defangs the spiral of despair. It builds a sense of purpose in a time of confusion.
I could use some more of that. Frankly, we all could.
And so, down the path I go. Looking into the fog ahead. And leaving why me in the dust behind.
I’m confident that tradeoff will prove worthwhile.