Essays

Every year as Halloween approaches and we are subjected to more scary movies, scary books, scary candy, and scary people doing even more scary things than they usually do, I sooner than later think of my stomach. During the other 11 months, I think of my stomach most days around 2:30, when dinner seems as far away as Mars, but I’m not referring to that more common about-my-stomach kind of thinking. I’m referring to a 13-year period of my life, 1989-2001, when every night was scarier than Halloween because of my tummy, which until then had been the second most favorite part of my food-reception system, the most favorite being my tongue.

In 1985, after 15 years of struggle, my writing career had really begun to take off, and in 1989 I had my first number-one bestseller, Midnight. We were scheduled to go to London for a three-week visit, one week of which would involve book promotion for my English publisher. A week before the flight, I went to bed with the 30-inch waist I’d had all my adult life—and six hours later woke in pain with a 38-inch waist. This seemed unusual to me. Before I could pay a visit to my doctor to politely inquire WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?, my wife had to go out and buy for me a pair of elastic-waist pants that were, as you can imagine, not the kind of thing Tom Cruise was wearing.

My doctor was fascinated and puzzled. He ordered a number of tests for me to undergo but assured me, “Whatever this is, it is not cancer. Don’t worry about that.” Relieved by his words, I waddled off to be tested. Three days later, when I waddled back to his office to learn the results, he said, “Good news! It’s not cancer! When I first saw you, I thought it was almost surely terminal cancer.” When I reminded him he had assured me it wasn’t cancer,” he chuckled like a delighted troll and said, “Would you have preferred for me to tell you what I truly thought and then have had to wait three days in fear?” I could see his point, so we both chuckled at each other.

Unfortunately, the doctor could not tell me exactly what was the cause of my pain and bloating. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was a Crohn Disease-like condition. Maybe it was a voodoo curse. Anyway, whatever the cause, the symptom was severe pain from inflammation, and in those days there was nothing to be done about it. If it didn’t resolve itself, which was as likely as a hippopotamus performing a credible ballet, I would have to “learn to live with it.”

We canceled our trip to England. After a few weeks, my waist shrank back to 30 inches. However, night after night, I was awakened by excruciating stomach pain that lasted three or four hours before subsiding. Once or twice a week, I had a shorter, less intense episode during the day. Then, after a few months, as you might expect if you believe life is like a Hallmark movie, at a neighborhood party I of course met a nice woman who published a monthly newsletter on chronic inflammation and research into treatments; you no doubt had a dozen such individuals publishing important inflammation newsletters in your neighborhood. She suffered facial rather than abdominal pain. She told me that if I applied ice packs to my abdomen when I went to bed, the pain might be less intense.

Since childhood, I had wanted to sleep with ice packs on my abdomen—who doesn’t?—but I was concerned that I might seem weird. Now I had permission to do so. For the next 13 years, I went to bed with a picnic cooler filled with packets of blue ice. I wrapped two ice packets in a dish towel and placed them on my tummy. After half an hour, the pain would diminish just enough for me to be able to fall asleep. However, an hour and a half later, I would wake with resurgent pain and have to replace the melted ice packs with fresh ones. And again. And again.

I had, as they say, “learned to live with it,” a lesson that would have made Victor Frankenstein’s life more pleasant if he had just learned to be more tolerant of the monster instead of getting all judgmental and remorseful. Then one day I had another more minor annoyance that required me to see a doctor whose specialty had nothing to do with digestive issues or other matters of interest to those that fascinated my family doctor. On my first visit, while I anticipated receiving a lollipop on departure, this Dr. New sat with me and took a medical history. Because I didn’t smoke or do drugs or bungee jump on a regular basis, there wasn’t a lot of “medical history” to cover, and we quickly came to the only ailment I could take some pride in—the chronic tummy inflammation.

Dr. New said, “Thirteen years is a long time.” To which I replied, “Not as long as fourteen, but the situation has tried my patience now and then.” So he said, “Do you eat a lot of corn?” Having acquired profound knowledge of inflammation, I was perhaps a bit smug when I said, “It was nothing to do with what I eat. My family doctor assures me of that, and all the reading I’ve done confirms that no one understands the cause.” Although Dr. New’s area of expertise was as far removed from the human tummy as were ears, he said, “Just the same, do you eat a lot of corn?”

Well, yes, I loved corn. I ate corn on the cob, corn off the cob, baked corn, corn fritters, corn bread, corn chips, popcorn, more popcorn, a little more popcorn, cheese popcorn, cornflakes.

Dr. New said that for two weeks I should give up all corn products, including any candy or baked goods or sodas or ice cream containing corn syrup (which is nearly all of those things), corn starch, and corn flower. “It is the molecule that you’re reacting to.” Although I had never before reacted to a molecule and though this advice seemed to be the wacky counsel of an ear doctor presumptuous enough to think he knew more about tummies than did a general physician with broader knowledge, I decided, what the hell, I’d give it a try for two weeks. I even gave up cornichons because, although they were pickles, they had the word “corn” in their name.

After twelve cornless days, I packed my bedtime cooler with blue ice and went upstairs. I was looking forward to another three or four hours of hideous pain that would disprove the corn theory and teach Dr. New some humility. I slept nine hours straight, with no pain for the first time in 13 years. After being pain free for six months, I switched family doctors. For the next eight years, I had zero corn, though I did at times gorge on cornichons. Somehow, after all that time, I was able to eat corn again without pain, though in moderation, which I have done ever since. If they ever make corn-flavored soda pop, I’ll be the first to try it, and no one will stop me.

That is why my favorite movie is The Corn Is Green, starring Bette Davis, though it’s set in a coal-mining town, not a corn-farming town. I don’t always understand myself. But now, as the scariest day of the year approaches, I contemplate (as I always do at this time of year) writing a terrifying thriller based on my own experience. It would concern an ear doctor (let’s call him Miles Bennell) who lives in a small California town, Santa Mira. People come to him to say that something is wrong with one family member or another who isn’t acting like himself and smells vaguely of corn. The doctor, his best girl, Becky, and two friends discover that an alien race of intelligent corn-based creatures has invaded Santa Mira and can grow duplicate humans from a mere kernel of corn, which then take the place of the people they imitate when those real people go to sleep. The terror builds to an almost unbearable height—whereupon there’s a stunning twist related to the fact that the lead is an ear doctor. An EAR doctor! Ha! That’s all I’ll say. You’ll get no spoilers here.

Happy Halloween from all of us here in Koontzland.