Peptic Adoption Application

Adopter’s Living Arrangement

Please describe your living arrangement.

When Tim entered my life, I discovered how inadequate my adult existence actually was. (Who knew?)

The groceries I faithfully purchased every week? He dismissed them as SNACKS. (Food, it turns out, is divided into specific categories—and not just for the convenience of shopping in the store)

The meals I prepared (haphazardly and hit-or-miss on my best days; my stomach neglecting to provide adequate hints that lunch or dinner had passed in the rearview mirror) were stared at in abject horror. I was barely consuming the necessary calories to sustain LIFE. (Considering I was walking and talking, I begged to differ) And my acquaintance with the food pyramid, food pie chart, food table—whatever nonsensical diagram people were using—was laughable.

We started dating and he immediately overtook my life where food was involved.

My nightly bowl of cereal was banished. Crackers and cheese? Those were reserved for the occasional indulgence. If I wanted to behave and get treated like an adult (always the eternal question), then I needed to eat like one.

As long as he was dating me, I WOULD have regular meals. Of actual food.

And I’d like it.

Describe your current home.

I’d lived alone for seven years. Seven years where I was answerable to no one but me and the changeable whims of my GI system. And the contents of my cabinets and refrigerator reflected the reality of those seven years for the world to see.

The first time Tim came over, I spent hours scrubbing the house. I wanted to ensure my humble abode exuded the proper image of a balanced individual. (He’d learn the truth soon enough)

It never occurred to me I should have devoted at least an hour to stocking my shelves with something other than toaster pastries and cereal boxes, some slices of cheese, and a sad container of expired skim milk. The single row of spices I was so proud to claim looked sad and alone next to the exotic supply he brought. The dumplings he was so determined to cook me required FLAVOR, and I lacked even rudimentary staples to begin that culinary excursion.

I didn’t even recognize half of the ingredients that swarmed my kitchen counters.

The echoing bangs of empty cabinets as he searched for domestic staples I’d never heard of (A steamer basket? Was that used for FOOD?) resembled the condemning nails in a relationship coffin.

Can you afford to care for your new peptic? (i.e., food, supplies, medical bills)

Naturally, I’d been distracted by the surprise addition to my household. (Nothing says, “I’m marriage material” quite the same as “I adopted another kitten today”)

I heard subtle undertones searching for an explanation for my bare cupboards. A justification for why he couldn’t find a responsible adult lurking between my stack of dolphin-patterned plates.

Had I the sense of a brainless 20-something, I might have seized on those hints. But I was in my late 30s and beyond the dating game. For all I knew, he’d stumbled on the hefty supply of cat kibble and canned food stored in the lower cabinets—rows upon rows of victuals designed to cater to every need of my feline family. Topped by the damning receipt from a last-minute run to the pet store to splurge on the newest arrival.

Tonks was set for the next couple of weeks. And I had half a leftover sandwich stolen from the breakroom to get me through the weekend. (I failed to see the problem. There WAS food in the house)

We hadn’t broached the topic of my sub-par health or the wandering patterns of my appetite at that point. I wasn’t about to discuss the logic behind my budgeting practices.

Far be it for me to explain that regular kitty digestion qualified for a higher chunk of my salary.

My Current Peptic History

Do you have a Gastroenterologist?

It took months for Tim to tease out the details of my impaired GI system. And then he watched every morsel of food I consumed (and those I set aside in reserve) with the ferocity of a parent. As the relationship cemented into being, “What did you have for lunch?” became a regular part of our conversations. Usually the second question after, “How was your day?”

He’d appointed himself my unofficial dietician. No contractual signature required.

I found it troubling and endearing in equal measure. As I did the sudden influx of foodstuffs into my home and gut. My cabinets and refrigerator swelled, a sudden influx that demonstrated what a standard kitchen was designed to look like. There was hardly room to shift boxes, packages, and bags around to complain there was nothing to eat.

I’d lost my ability to reject a meal due to inadequate selection.

Grocery trips stretched from a quick run down the snack aisle to meandering walks throughout the store. I encountered ingredients, fruits, grains, sauces, and vegetables I’d never heard of. (All apparently edible)

And when I attempted to thwart him with my list of taboo foods, he adapted.

Shaking this boyfriend proved as difficult as finding a menu to appeal to my spoiled digestive system.

Are there other organs currently in your care?

I wanted to deny that his thoughtful behavior (damn it) helped. He was poking his nose into a life I’d cultivated for seven years—seven happy years of singlehood—and established as my own. Didn’t I know better than anyone else how to manage my idiotic stomach?

When it decided it was hungry, I fed it.

When it was angry, I babied it.

And when it decided to grow indifferent, I left it alone.

The system had worked well enough. Why change things?

But his care of regular, healthy meals demonstrated better results than my “do what you will” attitude. The system stopped fighting me, dropping the number of nauseous days to a manageable level. And I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night with sharp, stabbing sensations behind my breastbone. (Never could decide if the ingrate was hungry or just resentful; we’d never been on speaking terms)

I never managed to satisfy his requests completely (lunch was always questionable at work), but I at least made an effort.

And so did my stomach. We developed a tentative friendship for the first time in our living memory.

Please list all organs you have owned in the past 10 years (not currently in your possession).

If (and this was an IF) I had considered his approach when I started my seven-year journey of isolation (oh, that blessed isolation), would my abdominal organs have respected me more? Could my medical history have looked different?

I didn’t like looking backward, and I wasn’t interested in entertaining the notion that I did anything WRONG, but in the late hours, as I looked at this intruder into my home, snoring beside me, I traced fingertips over the scars on my belly.

Did my gallbladder build up sludge because it was bored with bran cereal? Was a lack of regular, decent meals to blame for that pool of indefinable muck that sent me into six months of hospitalization? Or was the small organ destined to wreak havoc, regardless of what went into the system? (These things happen; sometimes you get a bad seed)

Could I have soothed the volatile temper of my stomach, calmed the waves of acid that tormented my sleeping and waking hours? I’d gone under the knife to rope it in with the Nissen fundoplication just one year before Tim arrived, desperate to stifle the erosion creeping into my larynx. But was that the fault of my irritable humor, or was it a lack of absorbable material? Did I need to endure the slow recovery of an unwanted liquid diet, or was there an alternative? (Still can’t stand to look at a bottle of Instant Breakfast)

And what about my appendix? No one knew what to make of the poor misunderstood creature. Maybe a consistent diet could have prevented its final temper tantrum. I never noticed its absence (I never noted its presence, for that matter), but what if I came to miss it down the road?

I didn’t want to regret my progress during those seven years, but his ministrations gave me pause to wonder.

I never shared my thoughts with him, but a grudging respect for his ministrations took hold. He made me a better person—in more ways than one.

The Peptic I’m Interested in Adopting

I am looking for a peptic that is:

• Small ___ Medium _X_ Large ___

• Hyper ___ Moderately Active _X_ Quiet ___

• Relaxed ___ Low-Key _X_ Strict ___

Over time, I came to accept Tim’s presence in my life. (Obviously, since I agreed to marry him) Arguing over meals simply became a part of our relationship.

He learned to stop asking what I wanted for dinner; I learned to attempt to eat regularly.

And I tried not to make faces when he watched me eat, gauging my reaction to new recipes. How to explain the majority of the time winces or grimaces weren’t a reflection on his cooking prowess but a response to my digestion malfunction?

I appreciated his attempt to keep our diet varied and interesting.

My stomach was less appreciative. (Ingrateful beasty)

He continued to make an effort, even as new sensitivities crept in; never complaining once. I stared in disbelief.

Maybe everyone was right, and he was an alien. No human could be THAT understanding.

On an average day/weekday, how many hours will my peptic be alone?

His tyrannical side came out whenever we were apart.

Grocery trips extended impossibly long as he prompted me to purchase food to cover the days he’d be out of sight. (No return to my bowls of cereal or stacks of crackers and cheese) He dragged me from one end of the store to the other, determined to purchase preparations. And no amount of whining about not having an interest in food—or that I’d survived for years without him—could dissuade him. I WOULD eat three meals a day, without fail.

Our regular phone calls to chat with one another inevitably circled around my digestion.

Had I eaten? What did I eat?

I felt like a child extending an empty lunchbox at the end of the school day. (Minus any included treats or the option to swap for a dessert with someone else) And while I understood the questioning came from a place of concern, my twisting guts coiled with resentment at the interrogation.

When I am not supervising my peptic, they will be: Loose ___ Confined ___ Monitored Via Other Means _X_

Tim had spies. He deputized my parents to check in on me, particularly on longer trips.

I received phone calls asking if I’d made arrangements for my meals. (The world was obsessed with my non-existent diet) I contemplated turning my phone off and disappearing for days.

While continuing to prepare sandwiches my stomach refused to digest. Somewhere in our relationship, I’d developed a habit of caring for myself. I barely recognized the routine myself.

I Understand and Agree…

My peptic needs food, water, and care at all times.

He did everything right—much as it annoyed me.

Even those irritating reminders to eat when he was away. And the calls from the other room to get my lunch in the middle of the day. Or the questions of whether I’d had breakfast.

Food was energy and kept my body functioning—or as close as it was likely to get.

And while my GI tract limped along at the best of times, it consented to operate. I couldn’t argue with the logic.

I’d spent countless time abusing and neglecting it. His plan of extending an olive branch proved the better option. When I chose to admit it. (Only happened infrequently and where he couldn’t hear me)

The medical community cannot guarantee the temperament or behavior of any peptic that I adopt.

After a couple of years, Tim was forced to acknowledge the futility of fighting against a temperamental creature with a mind of its own.

The one consistency with my bowels was inconsistency. What coasted along under his supervision, happily, for months crumpled into a heap the next month. And before long, my stomach began rejecting the love and care it received. (I’d warned him it was a nasty creature, prone to sullen silences)

Food tolerances wavered. Then food itself became an issue.

From pointed reminders to eat lunch, he urged me to see the doctor. (As if they had an answer) It was a transition that continued the love and support he’d started with that first dumpling dinner. A desire to see me remain as healthy and happy (damn—that word) as possible.

So, grumbling and protesting, I made the appointment. One more step on this journey away from those seven years.

And another step away from my cereal.