I saw my GI doctor this week. She is the one who discovered I was gluten-intolerant nine years ago this month, thereby condemning me to a diet that excluded any real bread products, pasta, beer and much more for the rest of my life. This was my annual visit to test for gluten in my system to make sure that I am complying with the diet. The long-term consequences of not doing so are pretty grim, so I don't cheat. But still, we check.
Although I hate being gluten-intolerant, I love my doctor. For one thing, most people suffer for years with my disease before it is diagnosed, and she decided to test me for it at my first appointment.
My doctor has three boys thirteen or younger. We talk about her children, and she always asks to see photos of my grandkids. Once we even fixed up her husband's sister with one of my sons. So I guess you could say we are friends as well as doctor/patient.
This week she was thrilled to hear that I had my first decent gluten-free restaurant pizza last weekend.
So was I.