Oh, the shame. But let me quickly point out that this was entirely our neighbors' fault. That's right, I will accept zero responsibility for shoveling in yummy pasta with homemade sauce (only the teeniest bit of meat), half a cannoli, and to-die-for garlic bread. Oh, yeah, and some salad. How are our neighbors to blame for forcing me to stray from Dr. S? Well, because they invited us over. And I HAD to eat what they made, right? Yes. Yes, I did. So there.
Since then, I've been Swanking, baby! I made the Skewered Scallops last night in the broiler. They had a nice mustardy/honey baste and were really, really good and easy. Tonight my mom is coming over, so she can accompany me to the neurologist's appointment tomorrow, and I'm busting out a classic (in that I've made it once): Baked Fish au Chablis. Another easy, tasty dinner.
Now about that appointment: I'm nervous. As a hypochondriac I hate going to the doctor perhaps even more than "ordinary" people do. I've been feeling kind of sh!tty for a few days, in fact, but I didn't figure out what was bothering me until today when I talked to someone about why I was down. It probably sounds very silly to someone who doesn't know where I'm coming from, but I hate looking at the MRI of my brain and cervical spine with the neuro. He has already gotten the written report, but tomorrow will be the first time he sees the images. I will watch him, trying to gauge his response. Inside I'm a nervous wreck, anticipating a slight intake of breath on his part and a, "Hmmmm, I don't like the looks of THAT," as he points to a whitish blob on the screen. From there my imagination goes completely wild, and if you can think of a horrible disease (besides MS), I'm way ahead of you. Not only do I *have* it, but I've had it for years (it was missed or misdiagnosed on earlier MRIs).
In short, that's why my wonderful mom is going with me -- for moral support. My husband usually has this delightful job, but he's started working at a new place, so he doesn't have enough time off accumulated. I'll get him next time!
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Showing posts with label diet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diet. Show all posts
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Saturday, January 5, 2013
The Walking Dead
BLRSFHYSRHG!! No, that isn't Capt. Nap vomiting. It's my imitation of a highly irritated zombie. I just returned home from the grocery store. Wegman's, to be specific. It's huge. It has everything I'd need to have readily at hand Swank-friendly food. On a Saturday afternoon, it also is jam-packed with cranky people. I overheard one woman say, as she tried to maneuver her cart past people standing aimlessly in the middle of the cereal aisle, "That's IT. I'm never coming here on a weekend again!"
I was too weary and annoyed by then to do more than nod feebly in agreement. By that time, my husband and I had been there for 2.5 hours. Yes, 2.5 hours. Did I mention the store is huge? But, on the positive side, it did indeed have everything on my list: whole wheat flour, fresh halibut, sesame oil, frozen strawberries, wheat germ, green beans.... Much of this I could have gotten at a closer, much smaller, store, but that particular store always has a funny smell if you get within 25 feet of the fish counter. Off putting, to say the least. However, today will be the last time I go to Wegman's on a weekend. By the end of the expedition, my husband was talking about needing a stiff drink, and I felt like the walking dead. Hence the outburst at the beginning of this post.
Home at last, all the groceries put away, and my husband is out with a friend (I was, of course, too tired to join them). It's super-exciting to have a well-stocked pantry and fridge, so I can embark in earnest on this diet. With the exception of the Pizza Incident, I've been extremely conscientious, but I haven't yet made an official Swank recipe. The one I planned to make last night (Fish with the Fancy French Name) I realized much too late would require more time than I had; instead, my husband and I ate a low-fat stir fry of chicken and vegetables.
I was too weary and annoyed by then to do more than nod feebly in agreement. By that time, my husband and I had been there for 2.5 hours. Yes, 2.5 hours. Did I mention the store is huge? But, on the positive side, it did indeed have everything on my list: whole wheat flour, fresh halibut, sesame oil, frozen strawberries, wheat germ, green beans.... Much of this I could have gotten at a closer, much smaller, store, but that particular store always has a funny smell if you get within 25 feet of the fish counter. Off putting, to say the least. However, today will be the last time I go to Wegman's on a weekend. By the end of the expedition, my husband was talking about needing a stiff drink, and I felt like the walking dead. Hence the outburst at the beginning of this post.
Home at last, all the groceries put away, and my husband is out with a friend (I was, of course, too tired to join them). It's super-exciting to have a well-stocked pantry and fridge, so I can embark in earnest on this diet. With the exception of the Pizza Incident, I've been extremely conscientious, but I haven't yet made an official Swank recipe. The one I planned to make last night (Fish with the Fancy French Name) I realized much too late would require more time than I had; instead, my husband and I ate a low-fat stir fry of chicken and vegetables.
Tomorrow night is the Fancy Fish. For breakfast, I'll try either the whole-wheat waffles or pancakes. And, to remove every iota of temptation, I'm sending my husband to work with those damn Butterfingers.
Friday, January 4, 2013
YOU Again! An Unwelcome "Friend" Pays a Visit
I'm sitting here browsing through the Swank Diet Book (SDB), deciding what to make for dinner. Well, that makes me sound more organized than I really am. In fact, I am noting all the ingredients I'll need to get at the store tonight after my husband gets home (my car battery died).
We've agreed, via text messages, on seafood. I've noted in the SDB many, ummm, interesting recipes, such as:
We've agreed, via text messages, on seafood. I've noted in the SDB many, ummm, interesting recipes, such as:
- Salmon Loaf II (yes, there is a Salmon Loaf I)
- Tuna Balls (hahahaha)
- Seafood Stroganoff
Okay, those don't sound so delicious, but there really are some promising recipes, and I've picked out ingredients to make Baked Fish au Chablis. It has French words in it -- surely a good sign!
While thumbing through the SDB, I paused to read a section in the beginning of the book on fatigue. As Dr. Swank refers to it, an "old unwelcome 'friend.'" Darn tootin', Dr. S.! Fatigue is one of those delightful "invisible" symptoms. Whenever I say, "I'm too tired to do [fill in the blank]," I feel as if the person I say it to (usually my husband) will have a flash of irritation.
"Oh, she's TIRED again. Sure. She hasn't done much today; why the hell is she tired?" he might think.
Let me be clear: he's never said anything resembling that, or even made an exasperated face (at least, not while I'm looking). He's incredibly patient and kind. So it's probably my guilty conscience that fills my head with such worries. See, I remember when I wasn't tired so often; when we used to go hiking and out to parties -- sometimes staying out 'til the wee hours! I worry that he'll eventually get sick of being with someone who's, well, sick. So that's a large part of the reason I decided to do this diet. I want to have more energy, remain mobile, feel enthusiastic again when he suggests going out on a Saturday night. I don't expect it to cure me, I just hope it will help me feel better. Lots better. And I'm most assuredly ready to make my relationship with that old unwelcome "friend" fatigue a lot less familiar.
p.s. I'd be remiss in my duties as a hypochondriac if I didn't say that of COURSE I've suspected my fatigue is related to a lurking deadly disease. But just in case I'm among the 80% of MS patients who experience fatigue, I'll try to remain rational about it. :)
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Thank You for Vomiting, Napoleon
I have a confession. I'm ashamed to admit this, because I already reported one dismal failure in the form of a tasty pizza last night. But, because I feel I'm among friends, I will share. I almost slipped AGAIN. Here's why:
I got these yummy morsels in my Christmas stocking. They had been stashed in a bag, which was wadded up and jammed in a cupboard. You know: out of sight, out of mind? HA! Those damn Butterfingers have been shouting at me for 24 hours: "Eat me! We're sweet and crunchy and delicious! One or four won't hurt! EAT ME!" (Does this happen to you -- food bellowing at you? Yes? Good! I was worried it was only me.)
Like yesterday, I ate a wholesome breakfast, super low-fat lunch, a banana, some grapes...and then I heard the muffled yet irresistible siren call of the Butterfingers. Somehow, the wadded up bag ended up out of the cupboard and on the couch next to me. I successfully ignored it for a couple of hours, thinking about how lame I'd feel when I was finished shoveling them in.
And then Fate intervened. Immediately after cat dinner time, I heard plaintive mewling from the living room. I assumed it was Napoleon (aka Captain Nap) and his sister Squeaky the Cat playing. The mewling grew louder, and then it turned into a repeated "blerph!" Yes, old Capt. Nap regurgitated his half of the duck-flavored canned food he has to eat because of a food allergy. That stuff smells gross from the can; you can imagine how it smells upon being expelled. I cleaned it up and, feeling slightly nauseated, put the Butterfingers away. So, thank you, Napoleon, for vomiting.
I got these yummy morsels in my Christmas stocking. They had been stashed in a bag, which was wadded up and jammed in a cupboard. You know: out of sight, out of mind? HA! Those damn Butterfingers have been shouting at me for 24 hours: "Eat me! We're sweet and crunchy and delicious! One or four won't hurt! EAT ME!" (Does this happen to you -- food bellowing at you? Yes? Good! I was worried it was only me.)
Like yesterday, I ate a wholesome breakfast, super low-fat lunch, a banana, some grapes...and then I heard the muffled yet irresistible siren call of the Butterfingers. Somehow, the wadded up bag ended up out of the cupboard and on the couch next to me. I successfully ignored it for a couple of hours, thinking about how lame I'd feel when I was finished shoveling them in.
And then Fate intervened. Immediately after cat dinner time, I heard plaintive mewling from the living room. I assumed it was Napoleon (aka Captain Nap) and his sister Squeaky the Cat playing. The mewling grew louder, and then it turned into a repeated "blerph!" Yes, old Capt. Nap regurgitated his half of the duck-flavored canned food he has to eat because of a food allergy. That stuff smells gross from the can; you can imagine how it smells upon being expelled. I cleaned it up and, feeling slightly nauseated, put the Butterfingers away. So, thank you, Napoleon, for vomiting.
Swank Diet Day 1: A Dismal Failure
Last night, at approximately 6:30 pm, my husband and I were looking glumly at the computer, reading about the Swank Diet and what we could/could not eat. One of the things you are not allowed to eat is cheese. Well, you can eat fat-free cheese, but does that really count? I had done well all day: wholesome breakfast, snacks of fruit, super low-fat lunch...and by the time we were perusing the dos/don'ts of Swank, I was mighty hungry.
Cheese. I had become fixated on cheese. We were Googling "what are the tastiest fat-free cheeses" and "will I go insane if I eliminate cheese from my diet" when it hit me: I WANTED PIZZA! (Full disclosure: This is not a new phenomenon; I want pizza every other day.)
"You know," I began, turning away from the depressing Google reviews of fat-free cheese, "we COULD have pizza tonight...kind of a 'last meal'-type deal. Plus, we could get it with light cheese and only vegetables!" I finished in a rush, because I could see I was losing him. After all, this diet was my idea, and he had bravely agreed to go along with it.
"Okay!" he said. Much too quickly. I guess I wasn't losing him.
So my first day on the diet was, er, not entirely successful. It was a step in the right direction, but I need to be totally committed for it to work. Today, I will be. I promise.
Cheese. I had become fixated on cheese. We were Googling "what are the tastiest fat-free cheeses" and "will I go insane if I eliminate cheese from my diet" when it hit me: I WANTED PIZZA! (Full disclosure: This is not a new phenomenon; I want pizza every other day.)
"You know," I began, turning away from the depressing Google reviews of fat-free cheese, "we COULD have pizza tonight...kind of a 'last meal'-type deal. Plus, we could get it with light cheese and only vegetables!" I finished in a rush, because I could see I was losing him. After all, this diet was my idea, and he had bravely agreed to go along with it.
"Okay!" he said. Much too quickly. I guess I wasn't losing him.
So my first day on the diet was, er, not entirely successful. It was a step in the right direction, but I need to be totally committed for it to work. Today, I will be. I promise.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
The Beginning
I guess I should start my story where all good stories start: at the beginning. Huh. Okay, not at the beginning, as in, "I was born in..." because that would be incredibly boring. But the beginning as in: it started with a little numbness and tingling in my fingers.
Now, as a hypochondriac, I'd already have stopped reading my own blog, because the instant I hear about a symptom of any kind, I am convinced I have the hideous accompanying ailment. For those of you brave enough to soldier on, here's what happened next:
I ignored these symptoms for several months, as any scared-of-a-death-sentence-diagnosis hypochondriac worth his or her salt will do. My coworker Charlie helped me adjust the level at which I held my hands when I typed. See, I had decided by then that it was most likely carpal tunnel syndrome. Yep, that can cause numb hands, and my imagination failed in its usual task of conjuring up fatal diseases. When the adjusting trick didn't work, I figured it was time to see a doctor. "What's the worst that can happen?" I thought. Did you ever see a movie when the main character says something ridiculous like, "Well, it can't POSSIBLY get any worse!" or "Phew, glad that's over!" and you shout at the screen, because you know it will get worse and it's most certainly not over. So, yeah, that was me. Had I for a second suspected I had a serious illness, I would not have been so cavalier about making that appointment.
The Appointment
"I think I have carpal tunnel," I announced to my primary care physician. "And I've been under a lot of stress."
The doctor asked me about my symptoms. There had been a new, odd thing I'd noticed: an electric-like jolt down my neck when I bent my head. And there had been an incident at my 35th birthday party.
My niece had given me a pair of earrings. When I went to take the ones out that I was wearing, to swap them for my pretty new ones, I couldn't feel my fingers. I thought I was holding an earring, but in between my thumb and pointer finger was nothing. I laughed it off at the time, and tried to again at the doctor's office, bleating more insistently about the stress and my theory of carpal tunnel. He appeared unconvinced and then did a scary thing. He said I should see a neurologist.
The Second Appointment
The neurologist turned out to be my dream doctor -- kind, patient, warm, and reassuring in the face of my ever-increasing unease. She did an exam, the details of which escape me now, and then ordered some more comprehensive tests. There was bloodwork, an MRI, and, horrifyingly, a spinal tap.
"Do not go home and get on the internet," she cautioned me, saying there was a wealth of misinformation that would only frighten me. (Apparently, my wobbling voice and panicky attempts at being funny clued her in to my state of mind.) There was no chance I was going to do something so foolish. I've looked up the most innocuous medical-related items ("how to remove a splinter?") and found 2,345,987 links to "cancer." I wasn't ABOUT to start Googling my symptoms. Better to bury my head in the sand and pray for the old stress/carpal tunnel diagnosis.
The Followup
Alas, that was not to be how my story went. I was at another family party (we're really not big party animals; not sure why this tale involves so many festivities) when I got a call on my cell phone. It was my neurologist. She wanted to see me in advance of my follow-up appointment, which was scheduled for about a week later.
"Bummer," I thought. Okay, not really. "Sh!t! F*ck!"is probably more likely. I've seen my share of movies and TV shows to know a "We need to see you early to discuss your test results" call is never a good thing.
The next day I was with my husband, drowsing in the waiting room. No, really, I was! But only because my neurologist had prescribed Valium for me to take before my spinal tap, and I decided this appointment merited another dose. When it was our turn, she didn't waste any time.
"It's multiple sclerosis," she said, very gently.
I cried a little bit, and then we talked about my options. She wanted me to begin taking disease-modifying drugs right away and recommended Rebif, a three-times-per-week injection. Overwhelmed, but confident in her advice, I agreed. She said a nurse would come to my house to show me how to give myself the shots.
My Very First Relapse!
Apart from the benefit of being in the care of medical experts, as well as the probable benefit to being on medication, it's a damn good thing I was diagnosed when I was. It couldn't have been more than two weeks after my diagnosis when I had a major relapse. In the MS world, that means something fairly scary happens. In my case, I was at work and began noticing a weird feeling in my right foot. I was supposed to go to a karate lesson with my friend Cleo that night, and I was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to go, mostly because I sucked at karate. The weird feeling got worse, and then it spread to my right hand. In just about an hour I was literally unable to walk or hold anything in my right hand. (Had I not known about the MS, I would have assumed I was having a stroke.)
"This could be it," I thought, sobbing as I tried to make my way down the hall at work. "I'll never walk again."
A kind soul helped me into a chair and my husband came and stuffed me in the car. We went to the ER to be sure I wasn't, in fact, having a stroke. One CT scan and several hours later (by then I was able to shuffle around on my own), I was released with instructions to call my neurologist the next morning. When I did, she prescribed a three-day course of intravenous steroids.
The first day of steroids, I went to a center where a nurse put me in a cushy recliner and monitored me to ensure nothing terrible would happen, like an allergic reaction. Once it was established that I could tolerate the steroids, a nurse came to my house to show me how to administer the following two days' worth. I had a catheter in my arm; she told me about changing the bag with the drugs in it, keeping the spot dry, and how to look pathetic while dragging around one of those stands with the IV attached.
The steroids worked wonders. After the three days were up, I was able to walk again and use my hand. I wasn't walking at what anyone could call a brisk clip, but I was just so damn happy to be WALKING that I didn't complain. (That's probably not true; I'm sure I did complain.)
Fast Forward
Now I'm going to fast forward several years, because (a) I'm getting tired of typing, (b) this entry is really long, and (c) my memory sucks. My Very First Relapse was the worst. I've had two other occasions to be given steroids. In the second instance, I was experiencing the MS Hug, a delightful feeling of intense pressure across your midsection. It's like wearing a very thick belt that's meant for someone four sizes smaller than you. During that episode, I lumbered around the workplace like the Hunchback of Notre Dame; I literally could not stand upright.
My third episode was a little more than a week's worth of shooting pains in my head. I called them "brain zaps," because I am incredibly clever. They were about a second's worth of stabbing pain and were totally random, although I could count on one every morning when I woke up and got out of bed. A pleasant way to start the day, indeed.
Little more fast-forwarding...I am no longer on Rebif, and I no longer see my kind neurologist. I am on Copaxone, which is a daily injection, and I see a doctor at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C. After a routine MRI, my neurologist decided that I had too many lesions (and at least one big one, which makes me think my brain looks like Jupiter with its giant red spot) for her to be comfortable handling. She wanted me to see an MS specialist. The doctor I'm seeing now is also very nice and patient and thorough. I have an appointment to see him Jan. 18. At that appointment, I'm going to ask him about the benefits of a dramatic diet that purports to work wonders in MS patients. It's called the Swank Diet. I am in no way affiliated with anyone related to the diet; I'm just hoping to share my experiences here. The diet looks pretty freaking hard, but I am lucky enough to have a husband who's willing to give it a go with me.
Here's a link that explains the basics:
http://www.swankmsdiet.org/About%20The%20Diet
I'll be checking in as I face 2013 with NO CHEESE (pizza is my favorite food). Ideally, in time, I'll have some tasty recipes to share.
Happy new year!
Ms. CrankyPants
Now, as a hypochondriac, I'd already have stopped reading my own blog, because the instant I hear about a symptom of any kind, I am convinced I have the hideous accompanying ailment. For those of you brave enough to soldier on, here's what happened next:
I ignored these symptoms for several months, as any scared-of-a-death-sentence-diagnosis hypochondriac worth his or her salt will do. My coworker Charlie helped me adjust the level at which I held my hands when I typed. See, I had decided by then that it was most likely carpal tunnel syndrome. Yep, that can cause numb hands, and my imagination failed in its usual task of conjuring up fatal diseases. When the adjusting trick didn't work, I figured it was time to see a doctor. "What's the worst that can happen?" I thought. Did you ever see a movie when the main character says something ridiculous like, "Well, it can't POSSIBLY get any worse!" or "Phew, glad that's over!" and you shout at the screen, because you know it will get worse and it's most certainly not over. So, yeah, that was me. Had I for a second suspected I had a serious illness, I would not have been so cavalier about making that appointment.
The Appointment
"I think I have carpal tunnel," I announced to my primary care physician. "And I've been under a lot of stress."
The doctor asked me about my symptoms. There had been a new, odd thing I'd noticed: an electric-like jolt down my neck when I bent my head. And there had been an incident at my 35th birthday party.
My niece had given me a pair of earrings. When I went to take the ones out that I was wearing, to swap them for my pretty new ones, I couldn't feel my fingers. I thought I was holding an earring, but in between my thumb and pointer finger was nothing. I laughed it off at the time, and tried to again at the doctor's office, bleating more insistently about the stress and my theory of carpal tunnel. He appeared unconvinced and then did a scary thing. He said I should see a neurologist.
The Second Appointment
The neurologist turned out to be my dream doctor -- kind, patient, warm, and reassuring in the face of my ever-increasing unease. She did an exam, the details of which escape me now, and then ordered some more comprehensive tests. There was bloodwork, an MRI, and, horrifyingly, a spinal tap.
"Do not go home and get on the internet," she cautioned me, saying there was a wealth of misinformation that would only frighten me. (Apparently, my wobbling voice and panicky attempts at being funny clued her in to my state of mind.) There was no chance I was going to do something so foolish. I've looked up the most innocuous medical-related items ("how to remove a splinter?") and found 2,345,987 links to "cancer." I wasn't ABOUT to start Googling my symptoms. Better to bury my head in the sand and pray for the old stress/carpal tunnel diagnosis.
The Followup
Alas, that was not to be how my story went. I was at another family party (we're really not big party animals; not sure why this tale involves so many festivities) when I got a call on my cell phone. It was my neurologist. She wanted to see me in advance of my follow-up appointment, which was scheduled for about a week later.
"Bummer," I thought. Okay, not really. "Sh!t! F*ck!"is probably more likely. I've seen my share of movies and TV shows to know a "We need to see you early to discuss your test results" call is never a good thing.
The next day I was with my husband, drowsing in the waiting room. No, really, I was! But only because my neurologist had prescribed Valium for me to take before my spinal tap, and I decided this appointment merited another dose. When it was our turn, she didn't waste any time.
"It's multiple sclerosis," she said, very gently.
I cried a little bit, and then we talked about my options. She wanted me to begin taking disease-modifying drugs right away and recommended Rebif, a three-times-per-week injection. Overwhelmed, but confident in her advice, I agreed. She said a nurse would come to my house to show me how to give myself the shots.
My Very First Relapse!
Apart from the benefit of being in the care of medical experts, as well as the probable benefit to being on medication, it's a damn good thing I was diagnosed when I was. It couldn't have been more than two weeks after my diagnosis when I had a major relapse. In the MS world, that means something fairly scary happens. In my case, I was at work and began noticing a weird feeling in my right foot. I was supposed to go to a karate lesson with my friend Cleo that night, and I was secretly relieved to have an excuse not to go, mostly because I sucked at karate. The weird feeling got worse, and then it spread to my right hand. In just about an hour I was literally unable to walk or hold anything in my right hand. (Had I not known about the MS, I would have assumed I was having a stroke.)
"This could be it," I thought, sobbing as I tried to make my way down the hall at work. "I'll never walk again."
A kind soul helped me into a chair and my husband came and stuffed me in the car. We went to the ER to be sure I wasn't, in fact, having a stroke. One CT scan and several hours later (by then I was able to shuffle around on my own), I was released with instructions to call my neurologist the next morning. When I did, she prescribed a three-day course of intravenous steroids.
The first day of steroids, I went to a center where a nurse put me in a cushy recliner and monitored me to ensure nothing terrible would happen, like an allergic reaction. Once it was established that I could tolerate the steroids, a nurse came to my house to show me how to administer the following two days' worth. I had a catheter in my arm; she told me about changing the bag with the drugs in it, keeping the spot dry, and how to look pathetic while dragging around one of those stands with the IV attached.
The steroids worked wonders. After the three days were up, I was able to walk again and use my hand. I wasn't walking at what anyone could call a brisk clip, but I was just so damn happy to be WALKING that I didn't complain. (That's probably not true; I'm sure I did complain.)
Fast Forward
Now I'm going to fast forward several years, because (a) I'm getting tired of typing, (b) this entry is really long, and (c) my memory sucks. My Very First Relapse was the worst. I've had two other occasions to be given steroids. In the second instance, I was experiencing the MS Hug, a delightful feeling of intense pressure across your midsection. It's like wearing a very thick belt that's meant for someone four sizes smaller than you. During that episode, I lumbered around the workplace like the Hunchback of Notre Dame; I literally could not stand upright.
My third episode was a little more than a week's worth of shooting pains in my head. I called them "brain zaps," because I am incredibly clever. They were about a second's worth of stabbing pain and were totally random, although I could count on one every morning when I woke up and got out of bed. A pleasant way to start the day, indeed.
Little more fast-forwarding...I am no longer on Rebif, and I no longer see my kind neurologist. I am on Copaxone, which is a daily injection, and I see a doctor at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C. After a routine MRI, my neurologist decided that I had too many lesions (and at least one big one, which makes me think my brain looks like Jupiter with its giant red spot) for her to be comfortable handling. She wanted me to see an MS specialist. The doctor I'm seeing now is also very nice and patient and thorough. I have an appointment to see him Jan. 18. At that appointment, I'm going to ask him about the benefits of a dramatic diet that purports to work wonders in MS patients. It's called the Swank Diet. I am in no way affiliated with anyone related to the diet; I'm just hoping to share my experiences here. The diet looks pretty freaking hard, but I am lucky enough to have a husband who's willing to give it a go with me.
Here's a link that explains the basics:
http://www.swankmsdiet.org/About%20The%20Diet
I'll be checking in as I face 2013 with NO CHEESE (pizza is my favorite food). Ideally, in time, I'll have some tasty recipes to share.
Happy new year!
Ms. CrankyPants
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