Mom didn’t breastfeed any of us,
so we were raised with formula. She says
I was a fussy baby. My stomach muscles
would cramp after each feeding, and I cried constantly.
She didn’t know if it was because
of the milk substitute or from hunger, so after trying several different
formulas, our family doctor suggested evaporated milk. That went okay for a
while until someone accidentally fed me a bottle of it undiluted and I went
into convulsions. Next, he suggested goat’s milk, but she felt sorry for me and
that was that.
In between all of these attempts she
would feed me rice water or oatmeal water, old remedies suggested by my
grandmothers.
She started me on cow’s milk
early. I was close to my first birthday
and it was a little easier on my stomach than the others. Besides I was old
enough to supplement my nourishment through other foods.
She continued to foist glasses of
milk on me throughout my childhood, and I refused to drink them unless they
were camouflaged with chocolate or strawberry flavoring. There was no fooling my stomach. It continued
to rebel – cramps, bloating, diarrhea, gas.
I was the life of the party.
For years everyone thought I
suffered from a “nervous stomach” just like my dad, but it wasn’t until
recently (after decades and decades of suffering) that I learned the truth – I
am lactose intolerant.
There is nothing sexy about a person
who is lactose intolerant.
I don’t know if it could have
been prevented if I had been breast fed as a baby and slowly eased into cow’s
milk, but then my dad suffered from the same symptoms and my grandmother
breastfed him as a baby. Either way, it is what it is.
I eat foods rich in calcium and
take calcium supplements. I eat yogurt
and lactose-free milk, but even those sometimes give me symptoms. My stomach can tell immediately if the cheese
enchiladas or the drive through ice cream cone is made with real milk or some
sort of synthetic.
I crave real cheese and ice cream.
I eat them knowing the consequences - none of them are pretty nor polite – so I
adjust my schedule and make sure no one is around to suffer with me (except for my
poor, dear husband. Sorry, babe.)
Comments
Post a Comment