Why Bother Writing Fiction When Your Real Life Looks Like Mine?

Last week my doctor sent me to an allergist.  Even though I’m gluten-free, the blistering skin continues and worsens.

Imagine my surprise when a woman in a white lab coat sat down in front of me and presented a tray of sixty needles.  My arms went forward, my head went down and I got the sixty daggers of death.  I do not handle needles well.  My screams of hysteria made the office staff laugh.  You know I’m kidding … right?  There was no crying.  I’m a tough bitch.

Anyway, the results were in just fifteen minutes later.  They showed an allergic reaction to :  shellfish (duh), fish, lamb, pork, wheat, soy and tree nuts.  In other words, I’m serving bottled water for Thanksgiving this year.

Just when I thought I couldn’t handle any more shock, I met the good doctor.  Physically, this man was the spitting image of Dr. Richard Sharpe.  You probably don’t know who he is unless you live in New England and have a morbid interest in cross-dressing, murderous dermatologists.  This allergist looked just like Sharpe so I was immediately startled by his appearance.  Then he opened his mouth.  No life circumstance could have prepared me for the fact that his mannerisms and cadence were identical, i.dent.ical to Martin Short when he played Franck (you can fast forward to 1:19 to see my doctor) in the 1991 remake — it bothers me that some people think it was the original version — of Father of the Bride.  I know he told me a bunch of stuff that I probably should have listened to, but I just wanted to order wedding cake from him.

Franck also wanted me to go to the lab below them to get blood work done to confirm.  My normal M.O. would be to agree with a smile and then run straight to my car.  I don’t handle needles well.  Upon a moment of rational reflection, I realized that when you’ve had 60 needles in one day on approximately half a square foot of flesh, how can you say “No,” to #61?  You really can’t.

I went down to the lab and was thankful that no other victims were there.  I have a penchant for crying and fainting when having my precious blood extracted from me — sometimes just crying, sometimes just fainting, occasionally both — and I prefer to play to a small audience.  I feel very possessive of my bodily fluids and sharing does not come naturally to me.

The first thing that struck me was that there were no beds.  I need to lay down when I have blood taken.  The second observation included the tech’s twisted sense of humor.  As she read over the paperwork I gave her from the allergist’s office, she started laughing.  She typed away on her computer, only stopping to ask “So, do you like lamb?” or “So, do you eat soy?” and “Huh, tree nuts?  I love almonds.”  I hope she gets scabies.

Needle Nazi then had me sit in this huge blue chair (think Brainy Smurf on Prednisone).  I quickly determined that even if I passed out, I probably wouldn’t end up on the floor.  NN started in on flicking my veins, complaining about their width and general inadequacy, snapping that fucking tourniquet, EXPLAINING EVERYTHING SHE WAS DOING AS SHE WAS DOING IT.  All the things that spike me into a fainting, crying frenzy.  All the things I told her not to do.  Didn’t she understand that the mere smell of rubbing alcohol makes me see a big white light?  I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up and just get on with it, but I’ve learned to be polite to all needle-wielding personnel.

After the blood theft, I went home and had a day-and-a-half of feeling really sorry for myself.  Because when you realize God hates you to the level of being banished to a life without bacon, you deserve to sit, suspended in some self-pity for a day or two.

I learned a few things this week.  You know how I always whine about gluten being in everything?  I was wrong.  Soy is in everything.  Like, everything.  In addition, many gluten-free items have soy in them and many soy-free, gluten-free foods have tree nuts in them.  Short interpretation:  I’ve booked my flight to Costa Rica for next Friday.  I’ll be sitting on a hill and chewing on a stalk of sugar cane for the rest of my life.  Because it’s all I can do.

A couple days after the 661 needles, the office (a doctor, but not Franck himself) called me with blood test results.  Basically, they told me to cut out all the things that I showed as allergic to on my skin test as well as dairy which also causes me to react.  I had already done that when I was self-pitying.  And you can imagine what a joy I’ve been around the house, feeling sorry for myself and angrily chomping on bell peppers with no Marie’s Blue Cheese dressing.  I could choke on my very resentment.

Today I met up with my regular doctor.  He’s a smart dude and the thing I like about him is that he’ll sometimes say to me “I have no idea, but I’ll find someone who does.”  Today was one of those days.  He can’t help me.  He suggested that I may have had a viral infection that may have attacked my immune system.  I guess it happens sometimes where an immune system can get screwed up and it views food as a foreign invader.  Or, I could have some sort of disease.  And if it wasn’t for my physical appearance, I’m sure he’d be considering the condition of hypochondria as well.  He is sending me along to the allergy clinic at Brigham & Women’s hospital.  After all, if I have to be told that my future looks like eggplant and orange juice, I want the news to be delivered by the best in the world.

Okay, so I’ve been soy-, wheat-, dairy-, tree nut-, lamb-, pork-, shellfish-, seafood- and happiness- free for a week and I’m still blistering.  I’m blistering worse, actually.  It’s so difficult because if I’m going to blister after I eat unseasoned chicken, I’d rather eat a lemon donut and blister, you know?

Tonight Franck called me.  Brace yourself.  According to my flamboyantly gay, spouse-killing, wedding planner, allergist, I’m not allergic to soy, wheat, dairy, lamb or pork.  Though they showed up on the skin test, they did not on the blood test and he thinks I’m just fine to go ahead and eat these things.  As he was giving me the good news, I opened up a package of bacon and put it in the oven.  This year, I am thankful for the cordless phone that allowed me to do that.  When I told Franck that I blister every time I eat, he suggested that I keep taking the ineffective antihistamines that I have been taking for three weeks now.

In summary:  I’m allergic to everything, dairy, soy, wheat, nut free cookies cost $6.00 for a tiny box and taste like cinnamon-flavored sawdust, I’m allergic to nothing, no one can help me, I should keep trying to throw pills at the problem, and I don’t handle needles well.  The end!