This morning I remembered that my grandmother died of paralysis of the bowels. Having a delicious Danish breakfast, I was well aware that for more than the last 24 hours my diet had consisted of gluten, gluten and more gluten. Now, my bowels don’t mind a bit of gluten here and there as long as it is interspersed with a large amount of non-gluten. The gluten happily mixes whatever else is there and makes for a porridge that becomes unmovable. Like wall paper glue that dries. A bit like feeding a cement mixer more solids than the liquids and then wondering why it stops working. A client of way back when ended up with a gut that literally came out of his body. Not through any orifice, mind you but visibly through the wall of the abdominal cavity. When he walked past you, it seemed that his shirt was overstuffed with tennis balls.During the war my grandmother coped with four small children on her own. Her husband went into hiding as there was danger of having to fight for the Germans. Not an option. Their youngest was two when the war started, the eldest only nine. My mother.When my grandfather returned from his place in the south, he had to be fed a diet of white bread soaked in milk in order to allow his stomach ulcers to heal. The children were still only seven to fourteen. Two years later she died. I never met her. This morning I felt very close to her whilst eating my Danish breakfast.
