I consider myself a relatively healthy woman of midlife. I cracked the half-century mark almost three years ago and, for the most part, this body of mine is holding up pretty darn well (aside from the occasional allergy attack, flu, bronchitis, migraine, creaky joints…okay, nevermind). The ravages of time haven’t fully taken hold of me yet, and for this I am thankful. All of my original limbs are still intact, I have all of my teeth (well, except for that big gaping hole in the back of my head where two teeth used to be, but that’s another story for another time) and my mind is as clear as the lagoons of the alluring Maldives. Still, every once in a while, something ails me and, as such, there are times when I find it necessary (albeit haltingly so) to visit my doctor for a bit of fine tuning. Some things, however, are out of my hands. This is where a midlife antidote comes into the picture.

The Woes of Midlife

Six months before my 50th birthday, my gastroenterologist respectfully requested the honor of my presence in an operating room for a routine medical procedure. I had no choice but to RSVP “Yes.” I kept telling myself it was just ‘routine’ even if it did involve anesthesia and a visual of me being passed out on a table with God only knows what happening during the process. No, I take that back; I knew exactly what would be taking place as I lay flat on my belly, comatose, with a hose shoved up my nether region. Thankfully, the procedure was of the textbook variety (although I’m sure everyone in the operating room got a good chuckle out of my dimpled ass) and as I was roused from my drunken stupor, there was only one thought on my groggy mind: food.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up just a bit.

As we barrel through this thing called life, time wears on our bodies. Do we want this shit to happen? Of course not . . . but it’s inevitable. Things break down. Teeth fall out. Once full bosoms deflate and droop. And stuff in our interior goes haywire. Poking, prodding and, for men, “Turn your head and cough,” become the new normal.

Welcome to midlife.

And so it went with my gastroenterologist as he scheduled my first colonoscopy. In preparation for the procedure (lucky me….) I had to fast the entire day before and the morning of the invasiveness. This meant that I—a lover of food and a woman with a strong aversion to the very thought of starvation—had to maintain a mostly clear liquid diet with my overall options being: water, apple juice, white grape juice, seltzer, ginger ale, iced tea, clear broth, coffee or tea without milk, vitamin water, Gatorade, ice pops or jello (except red, orange or purple) during the fast. This sucked on the highest attainable level of suckiness. Because of a weary day of international travel and my stomach performing amazing feats of flip-floppery, my last meal before the fast consisted of a bowl of Progresso Chicken Noodle Soup and a handful of saltine crackers.

Time marched on.

On the morning of the fast, the psychological game was afoot. Armed with the knowledge that I couldn’t eat any solid foods, my stomach chose to taunt me. Mercilessly. With each passing hour, I became more of a basket case. My bitch-o-meter went from 0 to 60 in .005 seconds flat. My husband, bless his heart, steered clear of me most of the day after I threatened to eat his arm. I was so damn hungry. Cursed colonoscopy.

By five o’clock that evening, I was beginning to hallucinate. My dog didn’t look so much like our loving family pet anymore but, instead, looked an awful lot like a giant hot dog on a bun sprinkled with onions and dripping with ketchup. It was official: I had lost my faltering grip on reality. Flavored water, turkey broth and crappy jello can only take a woman so far. I wanted meat. I’ll go out on a limb and say I was thisclose to killing for meat. It was brutal.

And then, about an hour later, the hunger pangs abated and, along with them, went my sullen mood. I still wanted meat, but I was no longer in the hallucinatory stage. By bedtime, I had resolved to stop feeling sorry for myself. I soon fell into a peaceful slumber while dreaming about a cornucopia of culinary delights.

When I awoke the next morning, colonoscopy day, I was grumpier than ever. I couldn’t even have a damn glass of milk to soothe my parched throat. Sulking silently as my husband drove me to the hospital, I began to think of the various and sundry ways I could slowly torture my doctor, end his life and make it look like an accident.

After checking in at the hospital, getting prepped, donning the gown with my dimpled butt exposed, being wheeled into the operating room and being asked to take a few deep breaths with a hose shoved up my nostrils, I was soon out like Marvis Frazier in his 30-second-knockout by Mike Tyson. (Don’t believe me? Google it.) Yeah, I was that gone.

Thirty minutes later, as the fog lifted and I looked around the room, a nurse came in and asked one of the dumbest question to assault my ears in years.

“Are you hungry, dear?”

My first instinct was to slap her across the face, then shake her violently by the shoulders, but I didn’t have the strength to do that…lack of food, and all.

“Urrgghhhmmrrppfhh,” I replied through the haze.

“Would you like an English muffin or raisin bread?”

“A turkey burger,” I slurred.

She laughed. The nerve. I was serious. She brought me one slice of raisin bread cut in half smeared with butter and a four ounce can of apple juice. Do I look like I’m five years old? I inhaled the bread, gulped down the juice and gave her a doe-eyed look meant to convey desperation and misery simultaneously.

Never in the history of flour had a slice of raisin bread soothed the savage beast of hunger as did this one lone piece of bread. The pockets that lovingly cradled the melted butter did so ever so carefully, protecting each drop that formed within its caring confines. Each raisin, strategically placed and each with its own singular divine purpose—to delight my taste buds with the goodness of nature’s candy—aligned themselves on the beautifully textured palette that was the bread. After 36 hours of nothingness, raisin bread was my savior.

“Would you like another piece of bread, dear?”

In the background, I saw a bright light and heard a chorus of angels singing.

“Yes, please.” A tear formed in the corner of my eye and slid down my cheek.

The air was filled with the aroma of raisins, bread and butter. The nurse, clearly having taken pity on me, placed the tiny plate in front of me overflowing with not one but two slices of raisin bread (each cut into halves) and two more dainty cans of apple juice. I could have kissed her full on the lips where she stood.

I took my time eating that raisin bread. Savoring the moment allowed the flavors to linger lovingly on my tongue. My husband watched me suspiciously from the corner of the room, but I didn’t care. His arm was safe, and it wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed me in the throes of culinary passion before. The moment would pass and all would be right with the world once again. It did and it was.

I’ll never forget the taste of that raisin bread that greeted my barren wasteland of a stomach after 36 hours devoid of food. Nothing in life will ever compare to its breathtaking flavor that so enchanted my palate. To some it would be a simple slice of bread with a few dried out, desiccated grapes stuck to it. For me, it was much more meaningful. It proved one solid fact to me:

Midlife may suck at times, and we may have to endure our fair share of medical hiccups, but there will always be something to make you feel better. In my case, my midlife antidote was a piece of raisin bread.

What’s your midlife antidote?

Raisin bread photo credit: avlxyz via Foter.com / CC BY-SA