Attack of the Donuts

He was lurking, waiting for me the moment I entered the front door of my office building. It was as though it were my birthday and he was herding me to my surprise party.

“We have donuts and coffee! Right this way! Come and get some.”

I love the taste of donuts (and also their more sophisticated cousin, doughnuts), which is why my soul shatters a little every time this happens. I’m not allowed to eat things like donuts anymore. To keep my MS under control, I get about five grams of saturated fat a day, which is roughly one serving of dark meat chicken. A single donut probably has 237,000 grams. 

“Thanks, I’ll just take some coffee.”

He leads me into the break room, practically pulling me along with the force of his eagerness.

“We have chocolate filled donuts, and regular. And also ones with custard. Just take your pick!”

“And coffee?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll pour you some.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“We’re just trying to improve morale with the federal shutdown and everything.”

“That’s nice.”

I was hoping he would just show me my options and walk away.  I didn’t want to break his spirit by turning down his  well intentioned treat. But it was clearly not to be.

I am one of the few employees in my building who doesn’t work on the same prison schedule as the institutions we serve, where all the morning shift employees arrive at 6:00 a.m. An array of donuts still lingered on the table, and by the time I got there at 8:00, I was among the last targets left. I was either going to have to take a donut and throw it away when I got upstairs or explain my weird diet, for the 527,000^th time, to a relative stranger, who would then immediately feel bad for having tried to nice to me. 

This is my daily life. 

Yesterday it was a minister at my church who seemed to take it as a personal affront that I didn’t have one of her frosted cookies. Last week a waiter at a party gave me a dirty look when I changed my mind about an appetizer he was walking around with after I realized it had red meat. The week before there was birthday cake to celebrate a co-worker’s birthday in my division, where everyone has heard me explain why I can’t have cake at least once a month for the last 15 months but still responds in shock and awe when I turn down a piece that’s already been cut for me.   

The worst part is not even that I have to turn down the junk food, it’s people’s reactions when I do. 

“Why not? You’re so skinny!” is a popular refrain. Of course, I already know that I know I’m skinny. I’d rather be less so, in fact, but MS disagrees and we argue about this frequently. I’d also really like that donut, but not quite as much as I’d like the use of my legs. 

I don’t like to tell people I can’t eat what they’ve offered because I have MS. Sometimes it makes them feel bad for having asked. Other times people are visibly jarred and things become awkward. Occasionally, I then get asked my whole life story when all I really want is to decline that donut and get to the bathroom to pee, because, hey, I have MS and can’t hold it very long. 

But most often, revealing my diagnosis to a stranger leads to trail of comments to which I’d rather not have to respond. The classic line those of us who are still walking upright hear is “you don’t look like you have MS?,” as though I decided to make up my nerve pain, fatigue, and partial blindness as a fun prank. "You're right," I want to say, "perhaps I just need a V-8." 

When I turn down junk food in public settings, I also tend to get questioned about my research. 

“Well, I have a cousin with MS who just eats whatever,” I hear sometimes. “You’ve also told me that your cousin is paralyzed,” I think in my head, but respond with something slightly more civil, about the latest research and it being a snowflake disease that effects everyone differently. Other people are skeptical and aggressively demand that I to explain the science of how saturated fat, dairy, red meat, and possibly pork, gluten and most everything else that isn’t a piece of broccoli affect MS, as though without their stamp on my diet is the one piece that's missing from a cure. 

Still others over-apologize for eating those things in front of me, making me feel self conscious for their discomfort. Really, I just wish people would eat what they want to eat, while letting me do the same, and not make a big fuss about it all. 

But that’s not likely to happen, especially not at my office, where Mr. Donut Guy’s eyes bearing into my soul. 

I reluctantly took a donut with sprinkles, intending to throw it away when I get to my office. I slink away thinking the interaction was kind of weird, but anxious to get into the confines of my own office where I can do my own thing and people will leave me alone.  

When I get there, I see something wedged between my closed door and the door handle, with napkins stuffed on each side. 

Someone, it seems, had grabbed a donut for me and placed it on my door.