When I was fifteen, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and we found that eating certain foods exacerbated the symptoms, the worst ones being gluten and dairy.

I was at a cafe with my dad and my uncle, who I don’t get to see very often. The menu labeled the gluten-free foods, which was good, but didn’t indicate dairy-free, which meant I had to ask the waitress when she came to take our order.

Me: “Is the orange and almond cake dairy-free?”

Waitress: “I’ll have to go check.”

We waited for a few moments and she came back.

Waitress: “I asked the cook, and they said the orange and almond cake is dairy-free.”

Me: “Awesome, I’ll get a slice of that.”

Waitress: “Would you like ice cream with that?”

My mother died when I was five. I was old enough to have very fond memories of the kindest woman to ever live, who loved me more than anything in the world, even after she got sick. When she died, my inconsolable dad didn’t even think about dating for several years.

He sat me down when I was eleven and told me that he had met someone. He had been seeing her secretly for several months, and he would like me to meet her before he moved any further. While I was a little bit terrified — my friends had stepmothers who HATED them, and they hated them right back — I agreed to do it for my dad, who had always put me first. I figured if this woman was special enough to get my dad to start dating again, then I should at least see what she was like.

Enter [Stepmum]. She showed up to our first meeting nervous as h*** with a puzzle in her hand. I LOVED puzzles, but my dad lacked the patience to do them with me and was always working. She tipped it out onto the table and sat down to help, answering every single one of my rapid-fire questions — even the ones that made my dad turn bright red. From that afternoon forward, we were best friends.

She was kind and funny, and she never tried to push me into anything. She came to every one of my hockey games and cheered louder than anyone else and always took me out for lunch afterward. I went to her when I got my first period, terrified because Dad had assumed that sex-ed had prepared me, and she handled it like a champ.

A year after I met [Stepmum], she moved in, and she and Dad got married. I was her maid of honor. She was an only child and her parents spoiled the HECK out of me — fancy electronics, new clothes, tonnes of “I saw this and thought of you!” presents. [Stepmum] couldn’t have kids of her own, so I was their one shot at grandchildren, and they took that opportunity and ran with it.

When I was fourteen, Dad sat me down again. He informed me that he was also sick.

Dad: “[Stepmum] would like to adopt you in case anything happens to me so that you can stay with her.”

I had a visceral reaction to this. Not only was my dad sick, but now the worst was happening: [Stepmum] was trying to replace MY mum. She appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Stepmum: “For God’s sake, [Dad], that was not what we discussed that you would say.”

Dad fumbled for a moment while I cried and sniffled and said, “No,” over and over again.

Stepmum: “That’s totally fine, honey. Our other option is signing some papers for legal guardianship so that I can keep you in case of the worst happening. Is that something you want?”

I nodded enthusiastically, even through my snot and hiccups. I didn’t want to ever be without [Stepmum]; I just couldn’t handle her replacing my mother. We signed those papers, and that was that.

My dad fought like h*** and recovered, even if he was now down a leg. [Stepmum] is now the world’s greatest grandma to my three little gremlins, and they love to go for rides on Poppy’s wheelchair. [Stepmum] is absolutely my mum in every sense of the word except on paper — and she never pushed for the paper, either.

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I used to babysit my neighbor’s two boys. They were… rambunctious and I was the Rosalyn (from Calvin And Hobbes) of babysitting for them. I actually got along fine with the kids; we played with Lego a lot and went exploring in the woods.

One time, they started a “cushion fight”, and before I could stop them, the older one knocked the young one into some furniture, which opened a big gash across his forehead. Being a head wound, it bled like crazy.

I called my mom to come take him to the ER — at the same hospital where his mom worked — while I held a towel against his forehead. The older kid had vanished.

So, my mom drove the bleeding kid to the ER, where his mom met them. Meanwhile, I was trying to find where the other brother had gone. Eventually, we had a couple dozen neighbors out searching for him all through the neighborhood.

Over an hour later, I was searching way down the block when I noticed that there was some red in the top of the giant fir tree in the front yard of the kids’ house. The older brother had been wearing a red shirt. I ran back and, sure enough, he had climbed to the top of the tree.

We tried to coax him down, but he was convinced that he had killed his brother. It wasn’t until his brother and mom got home from the ER that he would come down. He was fine, though all covered with sticky sap. The younger brother had some cool stitches but was also fine.

I work in a restaurant where I cook or wait tables depending on how long it takes me to get fed up with one or the other and need a change. We always have to be very conscious of allergies in food service as it can be life or death for some people with shellfish allergies, nut allergies, Celiac disease, etc.

Enter the gluten-free trend crowd.

While I recognize that some people have a legitimate allergy, there are so many that are trying to be trendy. The big difference is that a person with a true allergy already has a general idea of what they can and cannot have and will start the whole process off before ordering by letting us know what said allergy is, which we appreciate as it saves time. No big deal.

The trendy gluten-free peeps need to tell us three times throughout their order, and then, they always end up backtracking after they find out that basically everything they desire to order either contains gluten or is potentially cross-contaminated.

I am waiting tables this time around, and I’m starting to get tired of hearing about it. We have a particular almost-daily regular who tells us every time about her gluten intolerance, tells all the people sitting near her about it, and then proceeds to order items that have gluten.

I am having a bad day when she comes in. She does her normal spiel about being allergic to gluten.

Me: “Yup.”

That isn’t sufficient attention for her. She emphasizes what it does to her delicate system because she’s allergic. Then, she orders the usual: food cooked and prepared in the fryers — which have had gluten-ridden food fried in them all day. I’m thoroughly annoyed now, having to listen to her graphic details about her gut and the effects of gluten.

As usual, I inform her:

Me: “The food you’ve ordered is cooked in fryers that also cook items containing gluten.”

As usual, she replies:

Regular: “Oh, that’s fine.”

I have an evil idea pop into my head.

Me: “Ma’am, you just said you’re allergic to gluten. I cannot in good conscience put this restaurant or my job at risk by serving you food that you will have an allergic reaction to. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to pick another item.”

She’s shocked and starts backtracking. I stand firm.

Me: “No. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it. If you get sick from the food because I was careless about your allergy, then I could lose my job. These are the items you can choose from today.”

She asked for a manager and I called one over.

My manager was tired of this woman, too, and backed me up after hearing the story. The lady indignantly ordered one of the items I had listed to save face.

Obviously, there was no tip, but I don’t care; it was worth it.

She still came back two days later, miraculously cured of her gluten allergy.

Related:
Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 9
Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 8
Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 7
Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 6
Free Of Gluten, Free Of Thought, Part 5

When I was pregnant, I very quickly developed problems walking, partly due to my back disease, and I was told a few things to think about. One of those was to not stand on a moving bus.

Being a shy woman in Sweden, where we are very bad at speaking to strangers unless it is an emergency, I avoided full buses altogether, as my pregnancy wasn’t visible yet. However, sometimes you just need to get somewhere, even during the busiest hours.

So, I ended up standing on a bus, looking for the first available seat to claim. One man, seeing me, seemed to realise my situation, perhaps due to my pained expressions and bad balance. He stood up and offered me his seat, which was for older people, pregnant people, and those with other disabilities. I thanked him with a smile and sat down with relief.

Cue entitled old lady. She got onto the bus, came up to me, and began staring at me. It took a while before I realised she wanted me to give her my seat, and before I could say anything, an older gentleman offered his instead. The old woman merely glared in his direction and then turned to me.

Old Lady: “The youth of today should really learn to respect their elders. Stand up!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I really shouldn’t stand, and he offered—”

Old Lady: “I don’t care. I want to sit down, and you should stand up! I’m old and frail, while you are young and strong. Why should he stand instead of you?”

Older Gentleman: “It is quite all right; I have no problem standing. You can have my seat.”

Old Lady: “No, I don’t want your seat! Sit down.”

He did sit back down, and she stared me down again.

Me: “Look. I’m sorry, but I really shouldn’t stand.”

Old Lady: “Yes, you should!”

Me: “I’m pregnant and—”

Old Lady: “So what? You can’t be far along, and I had no issues standing when I was pregnant.”

Me: “And I have a back disease and can barely walk at the moment. The doctor told me not to stand on buses.”

The old lady scoffed. And despite her attitude, I could see a slight shock on her face; I think she got the picture but did not want to admit she was wrong.

Old Lady: *Mumbling* “Entitled youth.”

Then, she turned toward the older gentleman. He shrugged and said:

Older Gentleman: “Oh, you didn’t want a seat, and it is such a hassle for my old back to stand back up.”

She didn’t reply but merely moved on, further back, and got another seat soon enough.