Same Old Year
Some time ago, I became allergic to everything. I’d always had a few mild allergies to a few foods, things like avocados and sunflower seeds, and I managed just fine (though Southern Californians are forever baffled by anyone who doesn’t eat avocado). Then the food allergies began to grow, in both number and severity, joined by what I surmised was a type of pollen-dust mites-airborne-something allergy that presented itself like a long-lingering cold. At some point, I became allergic to almost every raw fruit, vegetable, tree nut, or seed. Almost every, but not every; the uncertainty made every meal a gamble. Some cooked foods bothered me, too, and sometimes raw foods that had bothered me once didn’t do so again. The hay fever-or-whatever-it-was kept getting worse, too, waking me every hour of the night like a colicky newborn, to swaddle in a pile of damp tissues and nurse my own soggy head.
I mentioned the allergies to my obstetrician again on Monday morning. She told me allergy sufferers should feel better when pregnant, not worse. My own research suggested this was not necessarily true, but I didn’t want to press the point. Instead I went home and ordered a box of Breathe-Right strips that accomplished nothing except violently exfoliating a portion of my nose.
Then on Monday night, I ate a piece of toffee covered in crushed almonds and embarked on one of the most acutely unpleasant nights…
