TOMATO, TOMATO.

“That smells good,” Mom said during my daily three-o’clock energy burst. I nod, smiling over my shoulder, because I know it does. It’s not what I’d like to be eating but it does, in fact, smell good. On any other given day, I would have turned to her with a cocky grin on my face and said, “I know,” but today, I just cook my chicken with honey, garlic, and lemon while I plead with my fatigue to come just a little later than normal today.

Today, I want to do things. It’s warm outside, the sun is shining, and the random burst of energy I have feels normal. Today, I feel completely normal. “Dinner is served,” I say, glancing at my phone when the oven beeps. It’s not even four, but I’ve learned to cook when I feel like cooking, to eat before I’m tired, to take my tinctures that Mom swears will work, and to just do what I’m supposed to.

No dairy, no sugar, no gluten. Ah, but that’s not all. No red meat, low fat, no white rice or nightshades. No tomatoes kills me. I put dehydrated tomatoes on my sandwiches and revel in my variations of homemade tomato sauces. Vodka sauce, blush sauce, red sauce… Sauce, sauce sauce.

“Mmm,” Mom sounds after her first bite. “Delicious.”

I bob my head, nodding in agreement. “I could eat this every day and be content.”

Mentally, I scold myself. I miss tomatoes. I miss foods.

Often, when my elbows hurt or my hips are sore from doing just about nothing but walking around the kitchen for an hour, I collapse into a pile of sadness, just a shell of the healthy, excited girl I was just a few months ago. I cry in my solitude, pleading with God to just let me make it through today to the next energy burst. I ask Jesus to heal me like he did the paralyzed, not for me, but for my mother, who’s doing everything in her power to help me just. Feel. Better.

Grocery shopping used to be one of my favorite parts of the week. Mom and I would load up on reusable bags and hit two to three different stores, chatting as we walk about, picking out ingredients for meals and snacks for when we watch The Bachelor or The Middle at night. Now, grocery shopping feels a bit more like a chore. I’ve always loved reading, but reading the ingredient labels on every item I pick up is less enticing than reading about murderers in works of fiction. The first line of any ingredient label is the most significant. There’s a long list of things that I cannot consume, for they cause inflammation in the body. To most, they don’t necessarily harm, but to me, the wrong ingredient could cause a laundry list of problems…

• Joint pain. Have you ever felt like every joint in your body is a stick being snapped in two every time you move your limbs? Try Lyme disease for the horrific experience!
• Fatigue. Have you ever looked at the clock wondering if you could still get up for your alarm if you watch just one more episode? Have no fear, Lyme disease is here to ensure you’re asleep before the sun goes down!
• Chest pain, nausea, and other gastro-problems. Want to feel like you’re having a heart attack? Want to cheer every time you go to the bathroom like a normal person? Okay, I won’t elaborate further on this one. I’m a lady, after all.
• Tingling and pain in the extremities. Ah, just some more symptoms of Lyme disease and also a heart attack. Want to have a panic attack thinking you’re reaching the end at the ripe age of twenty-four?

Seriously, I wouldn’t wish the pain and exhaustion I’ve felt on my worst enemies.

When my brother was ill after he was diagnosed with Lyme, I mocked his breakfast-lunch-and-dinner meal of brown-rice pasta with oil and herbs, and I thought he was being a bit dramatic when he would get angry at the ones around him who didn’t get it, didn’t try and didn’t care. I thought, “But this will pass. You’ll be okay, and things will go back to normal.”

I didn’t get it, and, well, I do now.

Recently, my snack of choice has been hint-of-lime cassava tortilla chips with vegan cashew and coconut milk cream cheese. I know, I know. That sounds pretty gross. It’s not, really. I’ve thrown out my old habits and in place have picked up one of experimenting with food in search of something I can eat that isn’t bland, boring, and, well, brown rice pasta with oil and herbs.

My regular meal is my honey, garlic, lemon chicken with sweet potatoes and rice. Grain-free granola (basically just nuts) with coconut milk and dehydrated blueberries. Avocados are safe. Asparagus is safe. Corn is fine. Carrots in moderation are good. Hummus has been a lifesaver… and, well, that’s about it. That’s my diet. Not necessarily bland, but not exactly the Italian norm I’ve gotten used to.

I fell in love with cooking before I got sick and took pride in watching my family take their first bites of whatever creation I’ve designed. Now, when I eat, I just pray that it’s something I like. It was always about everyone else before, and now, it’s selfishly about me.

It all leads back to my long days at the grocery store, shoving bags of organic sweet potatoes into the cart along with stopping to look at the label on anything in the Gluten Free section of the grocery stores. Disappointment and I are no strangers in the grocery store, and while I may feel like a toddler who wants dessert before dinner every time I pick up a gluten-free snack that includes the words tomato or cane sugar, the control that I’ve earned has become my most underappreciated accomplishment.

You never realize how easy it is to be healthy, to be able to eat whatever you want, than when you simply aren’t. You never appreciate the tomatoes more than when you can’t eat them. Still, this chicken is frickin’ delicious. The sweet potatoes with honey and lemon, cinnamon and nutmeg taste almost like apple pie, and the rice cooked in chicken broth with that same honey, garlic lemon sauce is delightful. So long as I know what tastes good with what, I can come up with meals to get me through this. Even if I miss tomatoes, I’m glad to be the girl who is content coming up with recipes that, not only help me, but may help others.

Right now, I hope that I might get better while tolerating the illness I possess for what it is, and soon after, I hope that I might help others do the same damn thing.