Back in my college days, I played nurse to a very close male friend who’d had surgery near his tailbone. I know, I know. Such devotion at such a young age. Ok, he was a very, very close friend.

My friend’s surgery left what the doc called a “cavity wound”, meaning that a large chunk of my friend’s shake-your-booty had been removed. His particular wound was so deep, so invasive of body tissue, that it had to be left open to heal. The wound would then heal from the inside out. In order to promote this, it needed to be packed each time the dressing was changed.

Already having a PhD in smart ass, I queried why the doc hadn’t just gotten out the sewing box. It would have been a hell of a lot easier on me, which of course was the critical issue.

Instead, I cleaned and packed. Slowly, carefully. Twice a day. Every day. First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. For weeks. And weeks.

Because I loved my friend. And because that was the only way that deep, gaping wound was going to heal. From the inside out.

And then the light bulb came on the other day. That’s the same way the food addict in me has to heal.