Life with Crohn's: A Poetic (and Gassy) Justice
Posted by Benjamin Stevens on
It's funny how life works. For years, I gleefully participated in the age-old tradition of fart and poop jokes. Little did I know that fate had a special kind of poetic justice in store for me. As the world was grappling with the onset of COVID-19 in early 2020, I was beginning my own personal battle – with Crohn's disease.
After a series of tests and procedures, the diagnosis came: Crohn's, a progressive autoimmune disease that targets the digestive system. It’s a condition that manifests differently in everyone. While some face the urgency of frequent bathroom trips, my primary symptom is intense pain, a sensation akin to digesting shards of glass, coupled with, shall we say, accessible gas.
The irony isn't lost on me. All those years of laughing at flatulence, and now I'm navigating the social minefield of frequent farting. I can practically hear my mother's voice echoing in my head, the F-word being strictly taboo in our household. "Passing gas" was the preferred term, of course. Now, I find myself meticulously planning outings, constantly aware of my need to, well, pass gas.
But it's not all doom and digestive gloom. Thanks to a combination of modern medicine and a complete overhaul of my diet, I'm managing quite well. Every eight weeks, I receive an infusion of biologics, supplement it with a few daily pills, and adhere to a diet that would make a rabbit envious. The silver lining? It has unleashed my inner culinary artist.
My diet is incredibly restrictive, but necessity is the mother of invention. I've become a master of creating delicious, Crohn's-friendly dishes that even my non-Crohn's friends rave about. Our weekly game nights have become a testing ground for my culinary creations, and the positive feedback is a huge encouragement.
And then there are the events. I've discovered that some are far more Crohn's-conducive than others. Take, for example, the recent Avril Lavigne concert. As Lisa and I walked to the car, a revelation struck me. "I think I've found my ideal activity," I declared. Concerts, it turns out, are a safe haven for someone with my particular brand of Crohn's. I gleefully admitted to Lisa that I had farted my way through the entire concert, completely undetected.
The beauty of my super-restricted diet is that my emissions are almost entirely odourless. Even if they weren't, in the cacophony of a rock concert, nobody would be able to pinpoint the culprit. Though, I have no doubt that in my circle of female concert-goers, with the exception of one middle school-aged boy, I would have been the prime suspect.
Ultimately, Crohn's is a part of my life now. It has its challenges, its absurdities, and yes, its moments of poetic (and gassy) justice. But with a little creativity, a sense of humor, and the unwavering support of friends and family, I'm navigating this journey, one (silent) fart at a time.