Cooperative Ketoing

I’ve now entered a new stage of my ketogenic-diet-for-seizure-control experiment.

More accurately, since this is a joint effort in which he cooks the food and I eat it, my husband and I have made the transition to a stricter and, with any luck, more effective phase of (my) ketoing for (my) medical purposes.

It was for a variety of reasons that my treatment team raised the idea that my extremely devoted husband prepare keto-friendly meals for me while I’m in hospital. First, my postictal psychosis, and with it paranoid thoughts regarding staff tampering with my food, has continued to be a disruptive force; second, there are limits to what the hospital kitchen can provide, meaning that my meals were “keto-inspired” but far from ketogenic; third, having practice eating food from home will make the transition to “normal” life smoother in the event that I’m ever allowed to leave 🤞.

Once everyone with a say had agreed that this wasn’t a horrible idea, my husband and I met with my dietitian over the phone. She then sent him a few recipe booklets from an affiliated hospital that has a clinic for the dietary management of intractable epilepsy. My husband was totally on board—excited, even. I was too. I’ve been here over twenty weeks and haven’t seen him in person for over seven (if my math is correct) because of COVID-19 visitor restrictions, and it’s nice to be able to collaborate on a project that moves me toward my goals, makes me feel more connected to my SO, and provides me with meals that are much, much tastier than what was coming up on my hospital trays.

FYI this is food photography and not just me trying to cram a husband-cooked meal, a whole avocado, an egg, a Ketocal, and LEGO into the same picture.


Man do I miss those prepackaged hospital muffins, though.

This is where I give the big thanks that are due to my husband. Big thanks, husband! He cooks incredible dishes, freezes them in individual portions, and brings them, along with other items needed to ketofy my meal plan, to the hospital several times a week.

In lieu of giving my husband a big ‘ol hug—I can’t leave the unit—I stand at a window and watch his ant-sized body arrive burdened with an enormous bag of food and then leave noticeably lightened (a nurse meets him downstairs for the transfer). These are quarantine times, so he’s within literal spitting distance (if spitting downward and with extremely good aim) yet is very much untouchable. It makes me sad. On the bright side, though, I’m eating like the queen (with epilepsy and recovering from anorexia) that I am.


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