1.28.2019.1 Today Carol and I came to the Farber for her acupuncture session, and when I saw the sign for the Zakim Center I realized that I was close to the food court, where I could score some chicken teriyaki! We discussed our eating strategy, and I decided to go for it. As soon as Carol was taken in I went across the path to the Sakura Japan.

The last time I was there, two weeks ago when Carol was getting her treatment, I learned from a security guard that you could order extra meat for $1.49, so I ordered a chicken and shrimp for $8.99 with extra chicken and extra shrimp. What I didn’t realize when I did this was that “extra meat” means “double meat”, and so I was served a styrofoam plate holding an enormous amount of food! Given that our plan was to go out to Mary Chung afterward, I realized that I might be screwed.

I started off on the shrimps, which were scattered liberally through the dish, and meanwhile reflected on the fact that three months ago I was recovering from my massive heart attack and had almost no appetite. Everything tasted insipid to me, like cardboard, and the only food I desired was Mary Chung’s egg drop soup, which my niece Lizzy and her boyfriend Alex brought me on one occasion, and Carol on several others. Bringing the soup involved ordering over the phone, driving to Central Square in Cambridge, finding a hard-won parking spot, rushing in to pick up the precious cargo, then returning to the hospital, finding another parking space, and bringing the hot soup up to the Cardiomyopathy Unit on Pratt 8. So it was not a small favor to ask.

However, my life literally hung in the balance. Despite having had a feeding tube (which I insisted on whipping out at a moment’s notice), I had lost thirty-seven pounds since the incident, and I was taking in pathetically few calories by mouth. Typically I would request a certain food, but when it was delivered, often with great effort, I would have one taste and then push it away. Too cold. Too hot. Not enough salt. There was always some excuse not to eat a reasonable portion. And Carol stood helplessly by, not judging or scolding, but trying gently to coax me to eat, like a little baby. I’m convinced that Carol’s experience being a wonderful mother to two boys helped her navigate this period. We have often joked that I was her third child, but in this case it was even more true.

By this time I had finished the generous portion of shrimp, interspersed with some of the chunkier pieces of dark meat chicken for variety, and started in on the rest of the chicken in earnest. The plate was looking a little less imposing now. Maybe I could get through it.

After leaving Tufts I was transferred by ambulance to a rehab hospital in Woburn where the food was slightly more appealing, but my appetite continued to wane. My cousin Hannah came to visit and brought an enormous serving of bulkogi, Korean marinated barbecued beef. I ate three or four of the smallest most tender pieces, but unfortunately most of the delicious marinade dripped onto the floor and hardened into a fragrant mess that kept the housekeeping crew busy for the rest of my two-week stay.

I got home a few days before Thanksgiving, and I remember being overwhelmed by the amounts of food that were being prepared and put on the table: huge servings of mashed potatoes and gravy, two large trays of stuffing, and of course a twelve-pound turkey which looked perfectly cooked, but of course was a little raw on the bottom where most of the dark meat was. I sat at the table and picked at my food, and watched my family eat heartily.

During this time one of the few foods that sustained my appetite was what is called “kim” in Korea, roasted salted seaweed. My cousin Hannah dropped me off a large bag of it on Thanksgiving morning. It came packaged in non-threatening pre-sealed plastic baglets, and was delicious to my altered palate.

This whole struggle culminated in a magical episode: the bag of perfect potato chips. One day we went to Star and I asked Carol to buy some Utz potato chips and Heluvagood buttermilk ranch dip. Then we went to the oral surgeon’s office for Carol’s postop check. As she was going in I asked her to get me the chips and dip from the trunk of the car.

As I started to eat, I noticed that every chip out of the bag had a perfect ovoid shape. Having always eschewed ridged potato chips, I was also resigned to the reality that a large proportion of the chips from a normal bag will be broken, cracked, or chipped. This was the magic bag. Even when I fished out a handful of chips, they were all perfect!

(Parenthetically, my friend Sharlene’s husband used to drive an Utz delivery truck, and even entertained the idea at one point of buying his own route. He decided not to.)

When Carol emerged from the doctor’s office I told her about the magic bag of chips and began to feed her, chip by chip, as we drove home. At first she requested no dip, but as the ride went on she transitioned to all chips with dip. I took turns feeding her and me.

Since that day the magic bag of Utz potato chips has become a legend in our house, i.e. between Carol and me. It was the straw that broke the back of my anorexia and helped restore, or perhaps express, my will to live. I have now gained back about fifteen of the pounds that I lost and am fighting to keep my BMI under 30 (186 pounds for me). As Carol says, it was a sneaky way to lose weight…

By the way, I did catch a second wind and finish that plate of chicken teriyaki. And when I left the food court I swung back around and scored a free sample too! Complete with a toothpick…

Thanks for reading!