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Look, here’s the thing. Life is short. It’s best to make the most of it while you can. So, when I am not feeling like death, I am going to eat as much fresh, raw fruit and veggies as I can. Consequences be damned.

And that’s what I’ve been doing. For the past two weeks, I’ve been eating salad. And nuts. And seeds. And fruit. And I’m not dead yet. Which is a point The Mom seems to have missed.

During the year and a bit that I last lived with her, I was very ill. Not as ill as most people with Crohn’s get, but for me, it wasn’t good. Weight was lost. Worried faces were made. Fruit and vegetables were verboten, exchanged for a steady diet of rice and meat. No sauce, no fat, no nothing. I had trained The Mom to fear such things almost as much as I did. Time was, I’d get a piece of lettuce on my plate and run screaming from the room.

But these things do pass and they have, thankfully, passed for me, for now. I have been feeling well, close, even, to robust. I have gained weight and to celebrate I have been eating what I’ve wanted to eat for so long. Vegetables. Lettuce. Cucumber. Broccoli. Peppers. Fruit. Strawberries, apples, blueberries, kiwis and watermelon.

At first, I was nervous. I thought to myself, okay, now, this is probably a really bad idea so indulgence must take place only at the weekend, in case things turn ugly. So, of a Saturday evening, I made myself a salad for dinner. I ate slowly, savouring every bite, knowing that it may be quite some time until I got to eat it again. But everything was okay.

Which is strange indeed. When you’ve trained yourself to expect the worst and then it doesn’t happen, it’s not exactly disappointing but you do feel you’ve missed something. Bouyed by my tolerance for fiber, I carried on. I felt certain that it would come to no good end sooner rather than later, but no.

It was only after a week that I blurted out what I’d been up to to The Mom.

I swear, if she could’ve strangled me down the phone, she would’ve.

“You’ve been what? Are you suicidal?”

“No. I am well.”

“The hell you are. Put the salad down and go and eat something sensible right now. In fact, get a Guinness in you immediately.”

“No. I am okay. I do not need to eat baby food or drink my caloric intake anymore.”

“You are joking me.”

“Nope. I’ts true. I am well.”

I realise that my being in reasonable health shouldn’t come as such a surprise, but I tell you, it does. It really does.

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