It started with a small red mark on the side of her mouth. Just a little thing, so small I wasn't even sure I saw it. Then, as I got Sophie out of her highchair and threw out the remainder of the lightly peanut buttered cracker, she started rubbing her eye- just the eye at first, then the whole side of the face, and crying and complaining. I was hoping that she had just gotten a crumb in her eye. When we went into the bathroom to check it out, a welt appeared on the side of her nose. Then, when I tried to turn her towards me to see the welt, what seemed like a hundred more popped up all around it, and her eye began to swell shut.
My heart sank. My daughter seemed to have a peanut allergy. I was terribly angry with myself - why, why had I decided to try this to her today?! The rest of our day was ruined! I was going to be worried about it all night long! More than just worry - panic. I gave my daughter something that had caused red bumps to spread across her face at an intense speed; they appeared in the literal blink of Sophie's puffy eye. Because of something I chose to give her (a thing I probably should have given to her earlier it turns out, but they really don't give you a manual for this stuff). And then I thought, all at once, "oh my God, what if this doesn't get better? What do I do now?".
It was a Sunday, so I had to leave a message with the on call doctor at my pediatrician's office, and wait for a call back. Observing that Sophie seemed to be in no immediate distress, other than some serious itching, I decided not to call 911. Instead, I fought with her (unsuccessfully) to get some Benadryl down, until the doctor called. She told me that I was doing the right thing, and that I'd eventually need get Sophie to see an allergist to diagnose the allergy and discuss treatment and care. While I was on the phone with the doctor, Sophie quietly took the Benadryl dose from my hands and sucked it down. Then, she fell asleep, and was fine. Her welts went away that night, the swelling of the eye took a bit longer. And her little life went back to normal, no worse for wear. My panic subsided as well.
In the subsequent days, I talked myself into thinking that maybe it was a freak occurrence - that Sophie didn't have a peanut allergy. After all, we've made no special efforts to disinfect the house of the peanut butter that we all eat so regularly, and she'd never had an issue before that night. Yes, certainly this would be fine. I'd schedule the appointment with the allergist, as a precaution. While I wasn't thrilled about having Sophie undergo a scratch test, I held out hope that we'd find out that there was no allergy, or perhaps a very mild one that we could "condition" her out of.
Of course, if that were the end to the story I probably wouldn't be writing about it. No, it was not as I had hoped - yesterday was the visit to the allergist, and there will be no peanuts for Sophie. I had to hold Sophie down as they administered the scratch test to her arm, and then I saw it balloon up on the spot labelled "P" for peanut. I listened as the nurse went through all of the pamphlets I would need to read on peanut allergies, how to read food labels, how to handle social situations, and how and when to use an EpiPen (remove the blue cap, stab the orange end firmly into the middle of the thigh, hold for ten seconds. Call 911.)
I know, I know that there are many, many parents who have to go through this stuff all of the time, and that in the grand scheme of things that can go wrong with your kid, this is probably not that big of a deal. Perhaps there is even a mother of a child with a peanut allergy reading this, muttering to herself "What is the big deal?!", or "God, this woman is such a drama queen!". Well, that's probably fair. But here's the big deal: I'm not sure that I can handle another emergency life or death type situation. The last time I was in one of those, it didn't pan out so well.
When Ryan was seizing in bed, I knew that everything was going to be okay. I knew it. It didn't seem as though there were another viable choice. He couldn't die. That was impossible. And even as I was in a sheer panic, I still thought everything would be fine. Looking back, no matter how my mind was racing, my actions were remarkably calm and collected - I reacted quickly and did what I thought I knew how to do to help him. Then, when that didn't work, I called 911, and spoke impossibly calmly to the dispatcher. I thought that as long as I didn't freak out, he'd be fine. The moment I knew that it didn't seem like he was going to be okay, I immediately started mentally thrashing myself. WHY didn't I called 911 faster? Why on earth would I believe that I knew how to handle this? Oh my God, what if this is my fault for doing something wrong?
A hundred thousand doctors could tell me that this wasn't my fault, and I would still have that little gnawing part of me that thinks perhaps I could have done something differently and Ryan would still be here today. So, with that on my heart, I get myself into a panic thinking about something bad happening to Sophie. I think, presented with another serious emergency, I'd be a basket case, second guessing every little action and decision. Yes, I'm going to be one of those Moms. A worrier, to the nth degree,
And then, there's the sheer insult of the whole situation. I think one of the first things I thought when she had the reaction was, "Seriously? I have to deal with this too? Shouldn't I be done with the bad news by now?" I guess I thought I had some unspoken contract with the universe that I have been through my hard luck, and it should be easy from here on out. I lost my husband, Universe. I'm done with bad luck. Pick on someone else. So whenever something bad happens, it feels like an affront.
So what, was I expecting a bump-free ride through my daughter's childhood? No major injuries, no sickness, no runs to the hospital? If I was, it was beyond foolish. Of COURSE we're going to have those things- every family does. Kids get hurt, they get sick, bad things happen all of the time. I have no right to believe that because I've been through some rough stuff that I should have earned some sort of free pass for the rest of my life. And I don't believe that, not really - I just sometimes think that someone owes me one. And even if I've probably already redeemed the one that I was owed several times over (the easy pregnancy with a lack of morning sickness, the baby who sleeps through the night, the fact that her first reaction to peanuts was serious but not life-threatening), I still continue to think it every time something bad happens. Come on. Don't you owe me one? (Said in the whiniest possible voice, to no one).
After yesterday, I just have this sad image in my head. The nurse at the allergist told me that her daughter has a milk allergy, and when she goes to parties, she wears a label that says "Don't Feed Me". I'm imagining my little Sophie, walking around her first social outings without me, wearing a sad little label that says "Please, No Peanuts". Perhaps just the word "Peanuts" with the international "no" symbol around it. And everyone else having their Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or Snickers Bars (which just happen to be my personal favorite candy), and Sophie wants one too but can't have one. Or maybe one day she decides that it wouldn't be so terrible if she just tried a little bit. And then I'm getting a call that they had to use the EpiPen on her, or rush her to the emergency room, or that no one knew what to do and they're sorry.
That's obviously the very worst case scenario. I know that nut allergies are prevalent today, that Sophie will probably have friends who have them too, that most schools know what to do, and that I'll learn how to handle it as well. But I just don't want to (again, said in the whiniest possible voice). I don't want to, as a single Mom, have to be worrying about what I buy at the grocery store, or what my daughter brings home on Valentine's Day, or anything like that. Most weeks I'm lucky if I even get to the grocery store at all, how can I deal with having to add on all that time reading labels? Ugh. Doesn't someone owe me one? And Ryan, aren't you supposed to be helping with this stuff? I guess the real big deal about Sophie having a peanut allergy is that it's just one more parenting thing that I'm having to do on my own. And while there is a world full of single moms who know exactly what that feels like, and while I have plenty of help from my parents and other family members, it still seems to me to be an awfully lonely burden.
Sophie, by the way, despite having been inconsolable during the scratch test at the allergist, is doing just fine. She's spent the day toddling around happily with a big silly smile on her face, like nothing ever happened. I wish I knew how to do that.
