The Best Turkey Sandwich in the Entire World

After a day of consuming mainly soft foods and smoothies, when the sun was finally going down, I’d usually find my friend napping in his room, his head next to his clunky old laptop, news still blaring. As soon as I’d open the door, the movement of the air would wake him up and he’d say, “You ready to go to our favorite restaurant?”

“Absolutely!” And I’d go into the kitchen and grab some variation of mashed potatoes, smashed broccoli, and ground meat in a glass Tupperware container. I’d bring two plastic forks and paper plates and we’d drive the 15 minutes every night to the only place I felt safe.

As we approached the red “ER at Valley Ranch” sign, John said, “Do you want to sit in our usual booth?”

“Yes. In the back.” And he’d drive my big old reliable car right in front of a giant cactus between the two blue cars that were fixtures at the hospital.

I’d pop the top off of the Tupperware container and scoop some out on a plate for myself and for John. It was now cold, but he’d devour it within a few minutes. It would usually take me about an hour to an hour and a half to finish my normal sized portion as with every bite, my chest tightened and it felt difficult to breathe. The anxiety would cancel out any hunger I felt.

But with John’s encouragement each night, eventually I’d get through it. Sometimes I would cry out of sheer frustration and John would stick his plastic fork into the leftover mess of food in the glass container and he'd be like, "Look, watch me. It's fine!" And he'd swallow the fork full, quickly and confidently.

"You have a big throat," I'd tell him. "It's not the same. You're safe."

"Come on. We're at a Michelin star restaurant. You can't pass up this food!"

"You're right," and I'd try my best and as long as it took me, I promised myself I'd get through the meal.

"I'm alive!" I'd gasp at the end of it.

John and I would head home, another small victory under my belt. But he wasn't actually talking to me on the way home. My anxiety was always present even after these wins, "You know, the design of the esophagus is all wrong. Why is it covered in opaque skin? The skin should be clear at least so we can see what's going on in there."

We did this routine for months. Until one day, John had to go away on business to Missouri for his first gig of the Summer so I was left in the house all alone for five days. I was pretty terrified about how I was going to eat. The usual comfort I felt sitting outside of an emergency room with medical personal just feet away from me, gave me no comfort at all when I realized I’d be by myself without John.

So I subsisted mainly off of protein shakes until they started actually making me sick. I tried frozen yogurt and even that would make my anxiety rise. I tried waffles with no luck. They were like eating little foam mattresses and my brain would stir with images of them doubling in size as they entered my esophagus. I made eggs. Too terrifying as well in my solitude.

My last real meal had been on Thanksgiving at one of my favorite restaurants. It was a traditional turkey dinner, garlic flavored turkey, as moist as could be, stuffing, mashed potato with the purple skins. Lobster bisque for an appetizer and a peach cobbler for desert. It was incredible.

But I was stuffed so I took some of the meal home with me. Sitting in my pajamas, in my dim kitchen lighting, I wanted to taste the feast one more time, as my stomach had room again. Not long into my little private middle of the night feast, I could feel the leftovers sticking in my throat after I swallowed. This terrified me. I continued to eat, but it only got worse. And a half hour after I finished eating, the feeling was still there. It felt like the food just wouldn't go down.

Eventually, I saw a doctor who performed an endoscopy and told me I had a stricture in my esophagus. The rest of the Winter and Spring passed me by, I received four procedures total to stretch the stricture in my esophagus as I continued to have issues like with my Thanksgiving meal.

Coming out of anesthesia after my last procedure, my doctor said to me, “I only had to dilate your esophagus a tiny bit this time. It wasn’t as tight as it usually is.” His words only comforted me for as long as it took for the anesthesia to wear off, then I was right back to where I started. Even though physically, I was cleared and I was okay again, my body still remembered what had happened.

With John gone, it was a challenge. I tried to eat pasta one night, but the noodles were too thick for my throat and I panicked. My chest became tight at the feeling of the noodles passing through my esophagus. I had an aversion to any slight texture in foods going down my esophagus because it reminded me of the feeling of things getting stuck.

Almost a week later, John arrived home and I told him how starving I was. My therapist and I had been talking a lot about spontaneity, so I decided to buy food I was actually in the mood for, regardless of whether or not I felt the texture was safe.

We headed off to one of my favorite restaurants I hadn’t eaten at in nearly seven months. I ordered a turkey sandwich; smoked turkey with Swiss cheese, dark green lettuce, mayo, and glorious avocado on the softest brown gluten free bread. I ordered it to go and John and I headed off to the “Restaurant as Valley Ranch” so I could eat it without anxiety.

As soon as he pulled in front of the cactus, this primal need to eat took over me, like a voracious animal that was inside of me. All of the swirling thoughts that usually plagued me while I ate, were gone and the sheer hunger was all that was driving my eating.

Normal bite after normal bite. Normal sized bite after normal sized bite. Normal amount of chewing time, not overly exaggerated. I could even feel the bread scratch down my throat, the avocado smashing to the sides of my esophagus, but it felt so good. I enjoyed every single sensation of eating that meal, finally completely relaxed.

My old usual terror was replaced with the smokey taste of the turkey. The scent wafted into my nostrils as I chewed it. And the Swiss cheese, I had never realized what an underrated cheese Swiss is. I no longer saw my esophagus as something I couldn’t trust, something that was broken. I realized it had been so long since I had real solid food that I had forgotten the feeling of food in my esophagus. I was supposed to feel it! That was a part of eating!

The next day, I went out and got another glorious turkey sandwich, except I ate it inside of the restaurant that I bought it in.

It’s no Michelin star like the Restaurant at Valley Ranch, but they sure do know how to make a turkey sandwich.