Allergic reaction
What’s blue and red and itchy all over? My arm
BEN POGGEMILLER STAFF
In the ongoing saga of my messedup medical life, I recently had an allergy test. Those who read last week’s installment (thanks Mom!) will know that I had nose surgery this summer to help my breathing (thanks, doc!). Everything went according to plan, but my nasal passages still felt somewhat blocked. During my follow-up appointment, the doctor addressed this issue by opening my nostrils with barbecue tongs and looking inside them at strange angles. He concluded that I probably still had some sort of unknown allergy and referred me to an allergy specialist. I got an appointment for Nov. 1 at 8 a.m. with a specialist, with the information that I should allot up to three hours for the test. I later found out that I would be having a midterm on the same day at 11:30.
Most reasonable people would realize this, figure that it wasn’t worth the risk of being late for a major test, and reschedule the appointment.
I, however, chose the more fun route, which is to alternate between fretting about it, feeling confident that I could do both, and forgetting about it altogether. A little extra study-time in the morning would have been nice, considering I watched Vincent Price movies and handed out candy instead of studying on Halloween (note: The Masque of the Red Death is a great movie). I had more important things to do that morning however, such as getting stabbed in the arm 38 times. After exchanging pleasantries with the doctor and answering some of her questions, the nurse came in and it was down to the arm-stabbing. The first set of tests consisted of 30 small, blue, double-pronged toothpicks, resembling a straightened-out crowbar. She drew 30 dashes on my arm in blue pen and commenced stabbing. Being a total wiener, I was ready to call it quits after about three jabs, lamenting the fact that she was only one-tenth of the way there, but I was determined to make it to my midterm on time so I toughed it out. She gave me a piece of paper listing all of the things she had infected me with that corresponded with my bleeding arm, and told me I had to sit there for 15 minutes. Most adults will maturely conclude that 15 minutes is not a very long time and will wait patiently, thinking about stock quotes and if they’re getting enough fibre, or whatever I imagine real adults think about. Since I have the maturity level of a fetus, 15 minutes was an excruciatingly long time to wait. I passed some of the time by comparing my arm to the piece of paper, to see what I was allergic to. I have always been outlandishly allergic to cats, so that space swelled up right out of the gate. The grasses also had a strong start. I looked at my watch and roughly two minutes had passed. I started kicking my legs, leaning from side to side, and tilting my head back to look at the ceiling. Five minutes had passed. I checked my arm again. By now it looked like a red, blotchy mess. I noticed that the nurse had folded the paper, revealing only the 30 she had done, and concealing the rest. Apparently, she had yet to do the intradermal tests, so I spent the rest of the wait concerned about what “intradermal” meant. None of the possibilities I came up with were pleasant. When the nurse came back, she was carrying a case full of needles. The next section involved eight more stabbings, except this time each one involved piercing the skin and creating a bubble of potential allergens. I’ve never had a problem with needles, but eight in a row was an intense gamut to run. Then the nurse informed that I’d have to wait another 15 minutes! At this point I lost it. I had no reading materials, and only a wall to stare at. I’ve never considered my thought to be a train, but rather a maze that I tend to get lost in frequently. Here’s an example of how I passed the time by getting lost in a labyrinth, except this one didn’t have David Bowie (Jim Henson movie circa 1986):
“What the heck is a mulberry bush? I’ve never tried a mulberry. In what climate do monkeys and weasels coexist? Am I allergic to mulberries? *Singing* we’re Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band; we hope you will enjoy the show . . . Hmm. She injected me with histamine. I’ve taken anti-histamines so I guess it’s bad. It’s not swelling up at all, so why would I take anti-histamines if I’m not allergic to histamines? Note to self: Google histamines. Hey, this would be a great way to fill my article quota for the week. I wonder how much real humour columnists get paid . . . *singing* the looooove shack is a little old place where we can get to-ge-thaaaa.”
Before I knew it, the nurse came back and inspected me. She told me the doctor would be in shortly. Halfway through “Hip To Be Square,” the doctor came in and she told me I was allergic to cats and grasses, specifically Timothy and Bluegrass, so I guess I can’t listen to the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack anymore. Essentially, she told me, I would be stuffed up from spring till fall. The whole ordeal was over by 9 a.m., but it felt like eons, so I ended up at school early and had to wait for my midterm. *Singing* “and she’ll have fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird awaaaaay . . . . ”
