Massive thanks to Karine and Tamara for playing personal assistants, nutritionists, and chefs for the past few days. They left this afternoon, after stocking up on fish tacos, and I tried to remember how to function without them.

They set me up on a quality diet. The nurse told me last weak [ha–Freudian slip–I mean ‘week’] that I was still pretty anemic, so the agenda was foods high in iron. Also, high fiber, to counteract the effects of all the narcotics I’ve been taking–no _way_ I wanted to end up in a Whitney Houston/Bobby Brown situation.

I’ve never in my life eaten with specific nutrition in mind–I mean, aside from the old BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce, tea) diet to get over diarrhea, or lots of yogurt to make up for antibiotics. But I’ve always enjoyed the creative challenge of playing within extreme limitations, and I think Tamara did too, composing menus from a list of specific ingredients.

Research on the subject of iron-rich foods was a little hazy, though, with some websites claiming very contradictory things, so T. and K. forged ahead with lots of spinach, liver, raisins, molasses, etc. Which is not nearly as gross as it might sound. Consider, for instance, a spinach and bacon salad topped with chicken livers and a warm balsamic dressing. Dark, rich gingerbread. Clams in a saffron broth. Steak and baked potatoes with the skin on.

What’s most encouraging is that these are things that were genuinely appealing, almost within the realm of cravings. My body knows what it needs, and I’m pretty aware of it. And even though Tamara and Karine and my mother were waiting on me hand and foot, eating three square meals of home-cooked food a day made me feel a little more independent, a little less like I owed my entire life to the miracle of modern medicine.

Because so far that has been one of the most unsettling things about this surgery–before it, I somehow considered myself not reliant on contemporary American society. I was above it, or outside it, because I could function in less-plush conditions (e.g., use squat toilets, buy meat from open-air butchers), I could feed myself, I didn’t own a car, I could entertain myself without cable TV… I would be able to survive when our economy crashed and/or the climate changed and/or whatever other looming disaster finally came to be.

Folly.

Now I thank the lord for Vicodin and the health insurance I so recently got and an endless supply of clean hospital gowns and antibiotics and syringes with pre-measured heparin and saline, and sweet and kind nurses who seem to like their jobs. The health-care system is deeply flawed, but it’s done right by me, so far.

I feel shaky–but the iron-rich diet is helping me feel stronger all around. And tomorrow they’d _better_ have oysters back in stock at the beach restaurant.