Midway through my fourth pregnancy I developed a deep love of pomegranates. My boys, then 4 and 2.5, adored the ruby fruit. My periodic purchase typically resulted in two kids-sized bowls full to the brim and a tablespoon of the seeds left for me.
Around my six month of pregnancy, the occasional treat morphed into a nightly routine. After the boys and oftentimes my husband were asleep, I’d walk to the kitchen and begin the ritual peeling and seeding. The quiet house meant that no one was going to ask me to share, ignore my answer, launch their perpetually sticky hands into the bowl, lick their fingers and sink them back in for more.
I’d grab the pom, place it next to the sink and fill a bowl with water. I chose the metal bowl typically used for family movie popcorn and filled it with the cool water. I cut the pom in half, chose a side and submerged it below the water line. As I learned on a You Tube video long ago, the seeds sink to the bottom as they pop out of the rind and the white rind rises to the top, easily skimmed off with a cupped hand. I’d release the seeds from the other side and slide all of the contents into a wire strainer- the remains, a small mountain of red berries, bursting at their translucent seams.
Transferring them into a white ceramic bowl, the contrast of their color and the sheen of the deep dish made my expectant body smile. The silver tablespoon I chose over the more reserved teaspoon was like a gleam of light on a cloudy day.
My son was born in December, so sometime in October, this every so often indulgence evolved into a weekly trip to BJs to purchase the poms in a flat- the cheapest option to enjoy one every single night. Boys go to bed, select, cut, pop, drain, scoop, love. Dare my husband still be awake, don’t ask me. I’m not going to split it. This fruit is mine.
If October has four weeks, sometime around early November, I suppose my behavior began to change. My PTSD, managed mostly by medication and therapy, ran haywire. My anxiety made my bones shake, my need to connect with my therapist increased, reassurance from my OB felt critical. Initially this was all chalked up to hormone shifts of the third trimester. Each night, a few moments of peace, my pomegranate.
November turned into Thanksgiving and by the end of Thanksgiving break, I drove the boys to preschool, thinking "I should not be driving, my body is too untethered. I feel like I am going to die. I can’t live in this body. The baby has to come out. I am practically screaming at people, pointing at myself yelling, 'I am on fire! I am on fire! Why aren’t you getting water? Or a fire extinguisher? Why are you just looking back in my direction?”’
Nightly pomegranate.
Immediately following Thanksgiving, my husband was at work and happened to see a patient with a medication sensitivity to grapefruits. The grapefruit juice impeded his medicine’s ability to work properly and so he took care. Triggered by my near lunacy at this point, and the consistency of pomegranates in his life, he hopped on UptoDate, an in-office medical website to support physicians with the most- ahem-up to date information. He typed in pomegranates and SNRIs and as he reported to me, his eyes widened and he shot me a quick text. "Email Dr. H and ask about the pomegranates." Huh? In my haze, ok.
Here is a copy of my email:
December 14 2021,
Hi Dr H,
I know this is a bizarre question. Does pomegranate ever have an effect on any medication I take?
Short and sweet, his answer began: Not a bizarre question at all.
What.
What.
Apparently, in some people pomegranates were found to interrupt the binding mechanism of anti-anxiety medications like mine.
I paused. Interrupted the binding mechanism…
Essentially, having met the critical threshold of pomegranate consumption to elicit such an effect, I not only prevented my medication from doing any sort of good, but I was simultaneously cold-Turkey withdrawing from the medication. For weeks.
I was certifiably losing control, all because I wanted to gain control over a brief period of my evenings and eat fruit that made me happy.
I responded to Dr. H with a brief description of my recent symptoms. His reply was again, simple, but this time it was in all caps:
STOP EATING THE POMEGRANATES
I felt the loss and it was true. In a few short days, my brain fog seemed to lift, my need for someone to extinguish my personal fire floated away and two weeks later, and four weeks early, I went into natural labor.
I’ll always miss those poms. To this day Dan is hesitant to even let me consume a tablespoon of the juicy seeds as a salad garnish. I think he’s afraid I’ll fall head over heels back into the abyss.
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