March 27, 2007
Every since I had the anaphylactic reaction to something last Saturday I have been paranoid to eat food. I examine every single label and if it has something in there that I can not readily identify I don’t eat it. That eliminates a whole bunch of foods. A whole bunch of yummy yummy foods.
On the plus side, I have lost those few extra pounds that were hanging out on my ass since the Christmas cookie eat-a-thon that lasted well through January.
The one thing I confidently ate, and ate with abandon, the past week and a half was bananas. Mir looked at me skeptically one day at the deli as I purchased yet another banana. “Are you sure you want to eat another banana?” she asked.
“Who cares if I never crap again. At least I know I’m not allergic to them.” I had laughed.
And eventually I did become more brave and branch off into eating other things, like apples and lettuce.
Leading up to my appointment with the allergist today I wasn’t sure what to hope for. On one hand, being told, “You are allergic to eggs!” on the other hand being told, “You aren’t allergic to anything, you crazy woman. Quit your over reacting and bitching. Don’t you know that there are people with real problems in this world?”
I went in and told the doctor the whole long story and he said, “This is a textbook case. I almost feel like we don’t have to do testing just based on what you went through.”
But of course we did. Probably to justify my $25 co-pay.
My back was pricked with a million little shots, or at least it felt like a million.
And then after it began to get itchy the doctor came in and looked at my back.
“Huh,” he said.
“Huh?” I said.
“You aren’t reacting to eggs the way I thought you would. Though I would say you are in the 10% who are actually allergic and don’t show up on the skin test. But you are highly allergic to bananas. I wouldn’t eat those anymore if I were you. Oh, and apples too. And here have a script for a second Epi-pen since I really don’t know what the hell is wrong with you.”
Okay maybe I embellished that last sentence a bit.
But, seriously? There go all my aspirations of being the next Carmen Miranda.
Later as he walked out the door he turned and said, “Try not to make yourself crazy over this.”
Too late for that. As in years too late.
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