Dear Pancreas, Why You Gotta Do Me Like That?
I never get sick. Why did my pancreas want to kill me?
In the summer of 2023, I made a cross-country move from Chicago to Bend, Oregon. I had spent most of my life in Illinois, and though leaving the state meant saying farewell to three of my siblings and one of my sons and his family, I was ready for a big change. Life in the Pacific Northwest would be the start of a brave new chapter for me.
My son Eli and I spent the afternoon unloading my belongings from the moving pod. Tired but satisfied with our progress, we went out to eat at a crowded, casual outdoor eatery in Bend. I took a sip of my fruity vodka drink and a bite of my buffalo chicken salad. My stomach started to churn. Huh, I thought, I felt totally fine a minute ago.
I had felt this type of stomach upset in the past, before the onset of acute pancreatitis. Surely that couldn’t be what was brewing now. It had been more than four years since my last attack. I asked for a to-go box for my salad and battled through the rest of the cocktail.
Back at home, my gut pain worsened. I showered, brushed my wet hair, and serpentined through the maze of moving boxes stacked in tall columns from my bathroom to my bed. I changed into my pajamas, but before I could climb into bed, I felt the sudden onset of lightheadedness — that rushing sensation where you ask yourself, Am I about to pass out? And then it hit.
I doubled over and fell to the floor. Vomit projected violently, too suddenly for me to make it to the bathroom. A stabbing, searing pain ripped across my upper abdomen. I fumbled for my phone, which had slipped out of my hand into the puke puddle. Desperate to reach Eli, I tried to wipe away the oil slick of regurgitated buffalo sauce from my phone. When the call finally went through, I whispered in a panicked voice, “Eli, can you come back to my house? Something’s wrong. I’m really sick.”
He stayed on the phone with me while making the quick mile drive back to my house. By the time he arrived, there were multiple pools of vomit next to my bed, and I was curled in the fetal position, moaning in pain on the floor.
Eli took one look at me and immediately called 911. We waited an excruciating 15 minutes for the paramedics to arrive. I was rushed to the hospital by ambulance, vomiting all the way, only to have the ER docs verify what my gut already knew: all was not well inside me.
I was having a full-blown acute pancreatitis attack, my fourth one in seven years. Pancreatitis is a cluster bomb that goes off in your gut, leaving you no option but to stop everything and lie down until your pancreas cools off. In the past, this usually took about four or five days of total fasting (IV fluids only), pain meds, and bed rest in the hospital. This attack was by far the worst — a solid 10 out of 10 on the pain scale. I didn’t know it yet, but in every way, this episode would unfold very differently from my previous attacks.
As the first shot of Dilaudid — an opioid eight times more powerful than morphine — coursed through my veins, all I could think was, Why this? Why now? This was not the fresh start I had imagined.
Breakfast of champions
Before having sporadic attacks of acute pancreatitis, my knowledge of the pancreas was limited to what I learned as a kid from my dad, who grew up with Type 1 diabetes.
First, there was his breakfast routine. Every day was the same — the slide of the canned juice across the top shelf of the refrigerator. The clinking of glass as he pulled the small bottle of insulin past the soy sauce on the refrigerator door. Half a grapefruit in a bowl, a steaming cup of instant coffee, and a plate with toast and an egg laid out on the table. Just above his plate lay the insulin and a hypodermic needle.
At the moment when some people say grace before a meal, my dad would stand up, unzip his pants and let them fall to his knees. Seated again, he’d poke the needle into the upturned insulin bottle and fill the syringe. Then he’d grab one of his thighs and give it a squeeze. Without flinching, he’d jab his flesh and push the insulin into his leg.
I never knew a day growing up when he didn’t do this ritual. It was so routine that it never struck me as odd or alarming that he dropped his pants at the kitchen table. Most mornings, I barely even noticed. My siblings and I were too busy pouring Cap’n Crunch into our bowls and arguing over whose turn it was to keep the prize inside the box.
It took years before I was old enough to understand that my dad gave himself these shots because he had a bum pancreas. His pancreas had stopped producing insulin when he was 12, and he had taken shots daily since then. According to my mom, diabetes could — probably would — cause him to die an early death.
She wasn’t wrong. He died at 46.
For two or three years before his death, we watched his health decline. Neuropathy stole the feeling from his feet, and he resorted to shuffling around the house in bowling shoes. Gradually, he lost the feeling in his hands, an especially grievous insult — my dad was an artist.
My pancreas insufficiency wasn’t insulin-related like my dad’s. But still, why would I, such a healthy person, have a bum pancreas too? Whatever the reasons, my gut was definitely screaming at me now to pay attention.
After previous episodes of pancreatitis, my doctors warned me not to drink alcohol. Alcohol and a high-fat diet are two of the major triggers for it. I followed their advice for about a year following each incident, but then gradually I’d have some sips of a drink, and then maybe nurse a glass of wine throughout an evening. Eventually, one glass would become two. And then at some point after one year alcohol-free, I would be back to having a couple glasses of wine a few nights a week. Not exactly excessive drinking, but not what the doctors ordered either.
I immediately regretted that last fruity vodka drink. I knew I shouldn’t have been drinking. I probably brought all of this on myself. I had it coming. I wanted to hide in shame. I needed to make amends with my body.
Gut Health? Meditation? Meh.
I’ve never been big into nutrition. I love food, and I enjoy cooking. But when it comes to learning about nutrition, I feel like I’m late to the party. There is just so much information on the internet, and I don’t know who to trust. As soon as you learn the secret to banishing belly fat, someone else tells you to do the opposite. Plus, I was married for a long time to a man who went down the nutrition rabbit hole. Every meal became a conspiracy conversation. The government is in cahoots with big pharma, he’d tell me. The Food and Drug Administration is itself a conflict of interest that should raise every American’s antennae. Our soil is tainted, so everything we put in our mouths is bad for us from the get-go. Before a seed is ever planted or chickens range freely, there is no such thing as healthy food from the grocery store.
I’m sure there is some truth to all of these beliefs. But honestly, after working all day, I just wanted to sit down and eat dinner without worrying if my meal was causing me harm.
Instead of taking the time to investigate the source of my food and how to achieve optimal gut health, I simply opted to sidestep the topic and carry on with my meal choices as best I could. Because I rarely got sick, I could live in the illusion that my gut and the rest of me were healthy enough. Now I kind of wish I had paid closer attention to the dinnertime lectures.
As I lay in the hospital for weeks this past summer, I started to wonder if maybe my pancreas swelling up in a rage was a sign for me to reassess my attitude toward nutrition. After all, I was experiencing the outcome of an unhealthy gut. Even I couldn’t deny this. I resolved to learn how to eat in a healthy way that would foster good pancreatic functioning along with overall gut health.
Finding my center
Instead of consulting with a nutritionist, I signed up to be part of a guided writing season with Foster, a community of creatives who use myriad methods to help writers cultivate more vulnerable and authentic work. In the opening ceremony, our facilitator led us through a meditation. Eyes closed, we all took breaths on his count as he guided us head to toe down our bodies. “Feel the crown of your head, your neck, your shoulders,” he said. “Where do you feel tension? What are you holding in these parts of your body?”
Disappointingly, I couldn’t feel any parts of my body. I didn’t feel tension. I couldn’t feel my head. I had no idea what my shoulders were carrying.
Then we moved down to our torsos. “Now focus on your gut — the center and source of your intuition.”
Wait, what? The center and source of my intuition? How could my gut be the center and source of my intuition when I’ve spent my whole life silencing it?
His words struck a chord, a nerve, a tear duct. I immediately wanted to cry. My gut. The place in my body I pay the least attention to and which has given me the most trouble these past three months. Was it crying out to be seen, heard, known?
All my life I have dismissed my gut. I ignore it. I tell it it doesn’t know what’s up. I diminish the uncomfortable truths that it tries to signal to me — those sensing moments when I can feel a decision I’m about to make or an action I’m going to take isn’t quite right. But in those instances, I shove intuition aside and see what my brain thinks. Invariably my head tells my gut, no, you’re wrong. That thing you think you saw or heard or felt — it’s nothing. It’s not as bad as it felt. It’s not real. It’s just your imagination. Nothing to see here. Keep moving.
I kept my eyes closed and hoped that none of the others on our Zoom call noticed my tears as a question welled up: Is there a way to reintegrate my body — specifically my gut — with my mind and spirit?
I had done so much therapy and deep work on reintegrating my inner child with my adult self. I thought I had completed the job and was living whole and fully human. But I wasn’t. I had left my body out of the equation.
In that moment, I decided it was time to explore what it means to be whole — mind, spirit, and body. To learn how to listen to my gut, the source and center of my knowing.
This article is my first step on the path to uncover what my body probably already knows, but I’ve been too resistant to learn and listen. I’m putting on my investigative journalism hat and diving headlong down the rabbit hole of somatic learning (learning through your body), embodied living, nutrition, and the connection between physical health and mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being.
Part of me still feels a resistance to taking on this endeavor. I have so much to learn! But a bigger part of me wants to live fully human — body, mind, and spirit. I want to know how to care for my body in a way that fosters overall well-being, not to mention keeps me from ever experiencing another acute pancreatitis attack again.
If you’re curious about whole-person living, subscribe to Consider the Source and join me on this journey.
There’s so much for us to explore. Let’s start with gut health. Who do you trust for information and guidance on how to eat well and foster good digestive health? Who’s worth reading, listening to, watching, and following?
As a fellow Fosterite, I laughed out loud when I read "Instead of consulting with a nutritionist, I signed up to .... Foster" 😂 I reckon a lot of writers can relate.
Marian, you’re an excellent storyteller. Such engaging writing! I really relate to how you’re exploring your intuition, especially this part:
“But in those instances, I shove intuition aside and see what my brain thinks. Invariably my head tells my gut, no, you’re wrong.”
In the last year or so, I’ve noticed the same pattern where sometimes I’ll catch myself overriding my gut/intuition, think I’m in the clear, and then find my body screaming at me in some creative way to pay attention. It’s been challenging to navigate, but I’m finally accepting how important it is, too.
Excited to read more about your journey on this subject!
PS it’s great to meet a fellow Oregonian through Foster--let me know if you’re ever in Portland :)