FMT Day Five: Just a Bowl of Cockles

A New Adventure

I am now halfway through my ten-day fecal microbiota transplant (FMT) at the Taymount Clinic. Before I left home, I thought this day would be a big milestone. I thought I would know, for certain, that the treatment was going to work or it wasn't. Perhaps I was right.

Obviously, I really like food, and novelty is a big part of the fun. With ulcerative colitis, though, the cost of experimentation was high--usually higher than I was willing to pay. Throw travel, with its many variables, into the mix and novel foods started looking more like time bombs. "No, thanks." became my standard and final answer.

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This is the reason I started creating recipes based on my own digestive comfort foods. I could create novelty with new combinations of familiar ingredients. Cooking--at least at home--was fun again.

While on the road, I avoided novelty like it was a disease. Gone were my days of traveling to a new place, exploring the surroundings, seeing the local sights, and tasting the local flavors. It was my choice but a choice I made with resentment--resentment for my gut, resentment for my disease, and, ultimately, resentment for myself. After all, I was the broken one.

After my fifth treatment (I'm getting to be a real pro), I walked around the Hitchin marketplace, looking for a few edible things I could turn into a healthy lunch. There were people selling old DVDs, hats, clothes, potted plants, wood sculptures, fruits, vegetables and seafood! I had found my protein.

Used to traveling with a broken gut, I scanned the seafood display for the safest choice. I was close to settling for a simple fillet when in swooped a couple of ravenous chaps. I hovered as these two bantered with the fish guy, expressed opinions about a few things I did not recognize, and then began chowing down on these curious bowls of, well, something. Realizing I had not yet missed my opportunity, I asked my questions with my funny American accent and was unceremoniously handed a few mollusk-like things.

"Try 'em."

The old me might have withdrawn my hand, apologizing and making excuses. The new me, armed with a belly of healthy microbes, embraced the moment, confirmed that these critters were not seasoned with anything, and enjoyed a new experience. In fact, I walked back to my hotel, nibbling on my very own bowl of cockles. Yes, I still passed on the malt vinegar, but the cockles that reached the hotel uneaten were delightful with a squirt of fresh lemon juice.

It turns out a cockle is just a type of clam, but it's a type I can't get back home. Oh, and the gut thing? I'm feeling great.

In good health,
Ethan