Have you ever seen a doctor move like his “tail was on fire”? I’ve only seen it in the movies or on TV before Monday. To watch it in person is a thing of beauty. When it’s caused by your reaction to his procedure, it’s downright thrilling…in a scary “Oh shit, am I in some medical jeopardy here?”
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
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