Chapter 23 - The Medical Answer
By seven, Miles’s stomach problems were much better.
Dr. Morgan never gave us one perfect diagnosis.
Mild lactose sensitivity.
Stress responsive functional pain.
Possible sensitivity to large sugar loads.
Normal childhood gastrointestinal variation.
All plausible.
None alone explained everything.
That used to frustrate me.
I wanted:
Patricia caused it.
Or:
I was right.
Medicine refused.
Dr. Morgan said:
“His symptoms improved with age, stable routines, reduced food conflict, and targeted dietary adjustments. We cannot quantify which factor mattered most.”
I smiled.
“That is a very doctor answer.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“The important thing is he eats broadly now without fear.”
That was true.
Miles ate pizza.
Ice cream sometimes.
Fruit.
Vegetables under protest.
He hated mushrooms for reasons unrelated to trauma.
Normal.
He also knew:
“My body gets to say full.”
That rule stayed.
Not because every child controls menu.
Because no adult humiliates a child for recognizing discomfort.
At school health class, Miles came home saying:
“Teacher says sugar isn’t poison.”
I laughed.
“She’s right.”
“Grandma said you thought it was.”
“She was wrong.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“Dad thought I was too worried.”
“Were you?”
“Sometimes.”
He looked delighted.
“You were wrong?”
“Frequently.”
“Wow.”
“Watch it.”
He laughed.
Then:
“Was Grandma wrong too?”
“Yes.”
“Was everyone wrong?”
“Different amounts.”
He liked that answer.
May you like
So did I.
It kept people human.
