‘We Know You Hate Us, But We’re Just Trying to Keep Our Kid Alive. We Nearly Lost Him Today.’

I’m sitting here beside my two-year old’s hospital gurney. He looks so tiny curled up sleeping in a bed that was meant to hold an adult. I can feel the sheets without even touching them, every sound and texture of this room is burned forever into my memory, because we’ve been here before. We nearly lost him today.

He is one of those peanut allergy kids.

Which means I am one of those moms.

I gave him a popsicle. I had done all the homework, I called the company, verified they don’t use shared lines, rechecked ingredients and felt confident that he could have it. I stuck them in the freezer for one of those relentless southern days.

Today was a scorcher. In we all piled from working outside in the garden, kicking off shoes, tired, giggling, sweating, loving. I offered one to everyone to help cool down. I pulled off wrappers and started dishing them out, ‘they are all the same size, don’t argue’, ‘I didn’t forget, I’ve got yours right here.’

I gave it to him.

We all plopped down on every available horizontal surface, exhausted from working hard. I had just kicked off my boots and laid back when I heard a tiny, faint cough. Just one. I was instantly on my feet assessing him. He’s not old enough to tell me, I have to know, and I have to know early. Trying not to startle him I sat down and watched him. Breathing, eyes, nose, skin, stomach, ears. Like an anaphylactic check list. Watching. Waiting.

There it was. The tiniest hive. Right in the corner of his precious cheek.

I sent my oldest out to get their dad. Took the treat away. Washed him off, gave the first Epi and made the call.

Over the next hour he vomited, broke out in hives from head to toe, lost his airway, turned blue, had 3 more Epi, Benadryl, Pepcid, steroids and an entire team in his room working, hurrying, asking questions about how he usually responds. Finally, the Dr looked at me with relief and said, ‘we’ve got him’.

Things are much calmer now. He is sleeping, he finally crashed from the Benadryl zombies, wrapped up in his special blanket, hating everyone for all the needles. They keep telling me to go get something to eat but I can’t. I can’t leave this spot. I am his voice, his advocate.

I’m thinking about how the action plan saved him.

I’m thinking about how desperately grateful I am that he made it.

I am thinking about all the things the allergy parent crowd wishes you knew.