Hunger

Image Gallery Jesse Kuhn / www.rawtoastdesign.com

In early 2009 my doctors forbade me to take any nourishment by mouth. My progressive neuromuscular disability had advanced to the point where my swallowing muscles were seriously impaired. Eating or drinking caused me to aspirate, with the consequent risk of fatal pneumonia. 

Now my nourishment consists of cans of a viscous, nondescript liquid that is pumped into my stomach tube. It is simply utilitarian, totally lacking in pleasure. And I run the pump at night, while I’m sleeping, so I don’t even have the sensation of becoming full. 

Until I stopped being able to eat, I had no idea what a complex role it plays in one’s life. There is the loss of that primitive rhythm of hunger and satiety that is so satisfying. There is the absence of the pure sensual pleasure of food—its taste, its aroma, its texture. There is the absence of meal-taking, which creates a rhythm for the day. I felt strangely adrift without it. And then there’s the social aspect of meal-taking, the sharing of friendship and conversation. My not eating was also a loss for my wife, who used to delight in cooking for us. It was a medium for her to express her love and nurturance. We both regret that loss. 

In early September my friend John visited, bringing the makings of a summer feast. My wife leapt at the chance to cook for someone she cared about. They ate wild salmon with a mustard yogurt sauce, garlic roasted potatoes, the last of the fresh summer sweet corn, and a sumptuous salad. I encourage people not to be self-conscious about eating in front of me. It would seem mean-spirited not to. Why should anyone else be deprived because I am? But their enjoyment of that meal, expressed in near-orgasmic moans, tested my generosity.