This garden is just one of several projects around my house that languish, not due to fickleness or lack of inspiration, but just because my strength has not returned. The garage is littered with tools in a state of suspended animation until I am able to use them. This garden is a sort of place holder for where one will soon thrive once I begin to thrive again. That is where faith comes in.
People, I eat healthfully and am preachy about moderate, but good, fitness. I knew it wasn't about over training or poor nutrition. Doctors would ask if I was depressed or under stress and what could I say but, "I am now." I never took anything for the discouragement. That would have been so, so counter-productive. I found that if you stay sick long enough and say "I used to feel great," the doctor will inevitably ask when that was and your only answer will be something like, "in my twenties." This just elicits an eyeroll. Who didn't feel great in their twenties? But I knew, in my heart, that what was happening inside of me was off the normal path of aging, so I continued to seek God about it and became my own lab rat.
I made an appointment with my new-ish family doctor and told him everything. He was so great. He didn't prescribe birth control or laxatives or arthritis medicine or Ambien (Yes, that's what one specialist tried to give me for joint pain?!). Instead he set me up for multiple food allergy/ intolerance tests and walked me through the worst food reintroduction diet known to man. I call it the Pinto Beans and Whitefish for Breakfast Diet. You won't be finding it on the bestseller list. But, it only lasted a few months and allowed me to see exactly which foods I was reacting to.
So, there's my long, disjointed health post. I tried to think of a way to make all of this interesting, but short of using sock puppets or writing an opera to tell this story, I had no ideas. Just throwing it out there. If you needed to see this, you're still reading; if not, you've happily clicked on.