*We are home, and Blythe is well on her way to good health. But I need to write about this. I have to get it out of my head.*
Blythe woke up happy and playful, peeking up at me with her huge smile and sparkling eyes.
We snuggled her in our bed, breathing in her smell and giggling as she tickled us.
Suddenly, she got sick. One moment she was laughing, and the next, she said she “had to spit”.
At first, she wanted to play between vomit sessions. She didn’t understand why I wouldn’t let her go outside. Soon, she just wanted to be held. 
Within four hours, she had stopped responding when I spoke to her.
As they drew Blythe’s blood and put in her IV line, I held her head in my hands and whispered to her that I was right there with her, that she would be well soon. She stared blankly at the wall, never acknowledging the nurses as they worked above her. She made no sound as the poked and prodded her.
She just lay there like a sack of potatoes, the sparkle long gone from her eyes.
Before too long, we were lying in Blythe’s hospital bed, waiting for her dextrose-free IV fluid to arrive. The staff scrambled to find corn free medication, tape, everything. Severe corn allergy was a complete unknown to them.
I studied my baby girl as she watched the cartoons I’d turned on for her. Occasionally, her eyes would flicker, the only indication that she was actually seeing the images on the screen.
I wanted so badly to see her smile, to hear her laugh. To see her do anything besides vomit and stare.
I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine back, the first response I’d gotten in hours. My baby girl was in there somewhere, fighting to come back.
Her Daddy came to see her, and she smiled the faintest smile. He held her limp body and rocked her back and forth, back and forth.
We felt so powerless to help her.
She slept easily that first night. The nurses came in frequently, but she would open her eyes for a moment and fall quickly back to sleep.
I lay in the fold-out bed next to her, waking each half hour to kiss her, to feel her, to see for myself that she was breathing, monitors be damned.
Once, twice, three times, her fever spiked.
Her body was riding a roller coaster of sickness, and we were holding on for dear life.
Just before daylight, I was sitting on her bed, caressing her leg.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked right at me.
Right into my eyes.
And spoke.
“Mommy, go to your bed. I’m sleeping.”
I cried, and silently cheered, and my heart finally broke free of fear’s terrifying grip.
My girl was coming back to me.
Category: Allergies
The last time Blythe received vaccinations, she was 5 months old.
Her body reacted so severely, so horribly – she has never been the same. Her pediatric allergist has confirmed that her food allergies were triggered by those vaccinations, and she continues to avoid all immunizations based on his recommendation.
However.
We are discussing a plan to immunize Blythe against H1N1.
There are risks associated with administering the vaccination, yes, including the (remote) possibility of developing Guillain-Barre Syndrome. But based on her medical history, between her asthma and compromised immune system, she is at severe risk of developing what the medical community likes to call “complications” if she were to contract H1N1.
And so we try to decide between:
a factor we can control, which would be to administer the vaccination for H1N1 in her pediatric allergist’s office, with a plan in place, of course, should she have a reaction. I would plan to stay home with her for five days following the immunization, to give her system time to recoup;
~or~
a factor we cannot control, which would be to take our chances and hope she doesn’t contract H1N1 – or, if she were to be exposed, hope beyond all hope that she wouldn’t have any complications.
Go ahead and read between the lines with that word: complications.
I have. My heart skips a beat every time I hear about another child developing complications from H1N1, most of whom have pre-existing conditions. Exactly like Blythe. Many of those parents have lost their children to complications. That sentence, alone, terrifies me beyond comprehension.
It’s a difficult decision to make, one I wish I didn’t have to make, but such is life.
Sometimes, choosing the lesser of two evils just has to be good enough to get us through the night.
Yesterday Blythe and I had our first treatments with a homeopathic remedy called the BAX3000 by BioAllergenix, in an attempt to cure her of her food allergies.
Our appointment went well, although Blythe did cry. Afterward, she rewarded (read: punished) the doctor for putting her through sitting still for two whole minutes by terrorizing the decorations in his office. And yes, that included the goldfish.
This particular treatment was for egg, a known allergen for Blythe. The doctor recommended that we feed Blythe an egg for lunch today, and although I was freaking terrified, I did.
I kept the EpiPen handy because, hello! Terrified! But excited as well.
So, without further ado, I give you: Blythe’s first egg!
Me: Blythe! Mama made you an egg!
Blythe: Oooh! Baby chicks!
Me: No, no, not baby chicks. An egg to eat.
*
Blythe: (sniiiffffff) Egg?
Me: Want a bite?
Blythe: Baby chicks?
*
Me: Not chicks, eggs! It’s good! Yummy eggs!
*
Me: Come on, open up! Don’t you know you’ve been deprived?
Blythe: I do it! 
*
Blythe: Here, Mama eat it.
*
Me: Ok, I’ll have a bite. Mmm! Yummy eggs! Now Blythe eat it!
*
Blythe: Mmmmmm!
Me: Now, any tingling? Swelling? How’s your tongue? Let me examine you for a rash. Let me listen to your breathing. Sit here on the couch so I can stare at you. Want to watch a movie?
Blythe: Movie!
*
Verdict: It’s been several hours, and she has not had a reaction as far as I can tell. I’ll keep watching her for symptoms, but WOW!
I mean, WOW! My kid just ate EGGS!
*She’s nekkid because I wanted to be able to spot a rash immediately, not because we’re refusing to run the air conditioner in an attempt to save money. Mostly.
I want to shout from the rooftops that we may have found a CURE for Blythe’s food allergies.
But I’m afraid to, because what if it doesn’t work? What if it’s just some quack peddling pipe dreams?
But what if it isn’t a hoax? What if it works and my girl can live a normal life? What if we can take her somewhere and not worry that she’ll be exposed to something that will make her miserable for days, or worse, force us to use her EpiPen?
What if, as the doctor promises, she’ll be able to start eating normal foods as soon as 24 hours after each treatment?
I close my eyes and picture what it will be like to watch her face the first time she tries
ice cream!
cake!
french fries!
bread!
scrambled eggs!
chips!
candy!
Or even the simple things, like
noodles with SAUCE!
REAL pizza instead of the stuff I make at home with rice crust and faux cheese
REAL pancakes, not the gluten free stuff that is flat and gooey
Peanut butter!
A peanut butter and jelly sandwich!
GRILLED CHEESE!
corn on the cob!
or the first time we take her to a birthday party and let her
eat what the other kids are eating!
keep what she finds out of the pinata!
choose something off the buffet!
Oh my goodness, just thinking about it is overwhelming.
Yesterday, I attended a class with a local doctor who recently began using a machine called the BAX3000, made by BioAllergenix. It’s a newfangled homeopathic treatment that uses frequencies delivered by laser to retrain the nervous system to stop attacking harmless substances.
It sounds hokey. It sounds too good to be true. It sounds…. worth a try.
As one of the doctor’s first patients, I promised to give our testimonial and spread the good word if this treatment works. In exchange, the doctor is giving us a two-for-one special so that I’ll be treated right along with Blythe. I’m relieved to be receiving treatment as well, so that I will know first hand how it feels, whether my allergy symptoms are abated, and more importantly, whether it’s safe to expose Blythe.
We’ll be undergoing 30 treatments over the next 6 weeks, and I will document them here.
I’m afraid to get my hopes up…. but honestly? Hope feels really freaking good.
I have been emotionally unpredictable lately, and it’s been driving me insane. Today, I cried more often than I didn’t cry. I wrote this to try and get some of my feelings out, so that maybe tomorrow I can wake up with dry eyes. I want to laugh, like Maddie laughed. Soon, I hope.
———
Unlike many people, I couldn’t imagine myself in Heather’s shoes when Maddie passed away. Inherently, I knew that the mere thought would crush me to the ground, shatter my heart and rip me to shreds. I didn’t try to see from Heather’s perspective, because the view is hard enough from here. My mind built a brick wall between Maddie’s death and the mortality of my own children, because I refused to make that connection.
But last night, I caught a glimpse behind the wall and it has brought me to my knees. In my first-ever twitter drama, I challenged someone’s view on unvaccinated children. I pointed out that my girl Blythe is deathly allergic to most vaccines, and so we don’t vaccinate. We can’t vaccinate. What choice do we have?
And while I’m not angry and the person has since apologized and explained that her social-media persona is often insensitive, her response is burned into my eyelids:
define “deathly allergic” she’s clearly not dead.
No, clearly she’s not. Thank God and all that is Holy in the world. Thank Modern Medicine and Science and Geeks who spend their free time experimenting in the basement. Thank the Universe, Thank Karma, Thank Fate. Thank Timing and Mother’s Intuition and Doctors who will listen instead of judge. Thank My Lucky Stars, she’s clearly not.
Those seven words acted as a wrecking ball, and for the first time, that brick wall protecting my thoughts came crashing down. I woke up this morning feeling raw, and the first thing I saw was my baby girl’s face smiling up at me. With every laugh, every gentle touch, every word she spoke, the words burned into my mind: Thank God, she’s clearly not.
I held her to me and cried into her hair, wishing I could take her smell and bottle it, keep it in a vial at the hollow of my throat. What would I do without the feel of her soft hair against my cheek? How could I go on, knowing I could never hold her in my arms again? Thank God, she’s clearly not.
Most of the time, in our day-to-day life, I plan ahead for obstacles but keep my deep worries at bay. The thoughts of what might happen if someone got careless have to be put on the top shelf, out of reach, or I would never let her leave the house. I try to let her live as normally as possible, just as Heather and Mike did for Maddie. There’s no sense in trying to keep her in a bubble – what kind of life is that?
But today I look at her and I can’t help but think of all the what-ifs. I think of the near misses and the chances we take every day. I wonder what would happen if the one time I forgot her epi-pen at home turned out to be the one time we really needed it. Today, the wall is gone. Every time I look at my baby girl, I get a tiny glimpse of what it would be like to be in Heather’s shoes and it takes my breath away. Today, all the fears I’ve harbored about Blythe’s future are right there, laid out in front of me. 
I think about how, if something were to happen and she had to be taken to the hospital, they may not have the right tools to help her. How many hospitals keep corn-free IV fluid in stock? How many keep pure pain meds on hand? Or pure antibiotics, or pure anything else? How many doctors would listen to a hysterical mother? Even if she’s trying to explain that ordinary medical products would most likely put her small child into anaphylactic shock?
I don’t want to see the view from Heather’s shoes. Not ever, ever, ever. I don’t want to think about how I would handle it. But today, I do think about it and I cry. I cry for Maddie and for all the what-ifs. I cry for Heather and Mike, and my admiration for them deepens by the second. 
I watch my little girl go about her day, unware of the dangers around her, and I think to myself: Thank God, she’s clearly not.