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Last summer, my daughter was stung by a swarm of angry yellowjackets, precipitating a trip to the ER. This week, we finally had our appointment at the allergist for a follow-up. We live in a podunk little town, so we had to drive up to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center in New Hampshire, which is a very impressive hospital I have a little bit of a crush on, as a practicing hypochondriac.
There, Eliza was poked, prodded, and experimented upon in order to determine that she is, in fact, allergic to bees. Actually, she did not show an allergy for honeybees,** which made me very happy, because it means I can perpetuate my English-garden dreams. But wasps, yellowjackets, and hornets are all mortal enemies, quite literally.
** Much to Jon’s disappointment, she is also not allergic to cats.
The good news is: immunology. This is a crazy facet of modern medicine where they micro-dose you with wasp venom over time until you build up a tolerance to it. It’s magic, basically. Expect instead of an incantation, we have to drive up to Dartmouth every week for FOURTEEN WEEKS for sub-dermal shots.
That’s fourteen weeks of taking time out of work and school to make the long slog to DHMC. On the other hand, it’s fourteen opportunities to take my daughter out to lunch at King Arthur Flour, which is a pretty awesome little slice of Vermont tourist goodness up in Norwich. It’s also fourteen opportunities to spend one-on-one time with her (or for Jon to do so, or Nana, because this is definitely going to be a group effort).
This last Monday, as we enjoyed a yummy post-appointment lunch at the busy cafe at King Arthur Flour, Jon and I wondered if this was, in fact, the first time we’d both been alone with just one daughter. Twins are magical. Time alone with one twin? Also magical.
We also wondered how we raised a child to be nearly five who has never had a carton of milk. “What is this?” she asked. I had to show her how to open it and drink from the triangular hole.
As a baby I always called Eliza “my little toughie.” Even in the womb, she was in a squinched position under her lounging sister, and she made do. She’s a pretty tough cookie and handles things like shots and doctor prodding pretty well in general. So I was very proud of how stoic she was in the face of the allergy testing experience. She got a little freaked out, but she held it together by hanging on very tightly to Jon.
As I was walking the many, many miles of corridors to get out of the behemoth hospital, I took the opportunity to feel extremely grateful that we were merely there for was a venom allergy. In the overall scheme of things, this is a pretty small thing.
What I’m reading:
After reading Finland Is a Capitalist Paradise, I am desperately wanting to move there.
What I’m listening to:
“Why It’s Time To Retire The Disparaging Term ‘White Trash’” — a 3-minute audio clip sent to me by a new friend (thanks, Mel) who kindly reminded me that, as someone who claims to care a lot about diversity and inclusion, maaaaaybe I shouldn’t so casually lean on the term white trash to describe poor behavior – even if I take ownership over it as someone with hardcore hillbilly genes. Totally took this point to heart. Challenge accepted. Please listen to this clip if you don’t understand (as I didn’t) why the term white trash is pretty dang racist!
What I’m working on:
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For Eventbrite: 9 Ways to Make Absolutely Everyone Feel Welcome at Your Event
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For Spencer Stuart: 10 Characteristics That Will Define Successful Future CPG Leaders
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For Helpshift: Demystifying Customer Service Channels: How to Choose the Best Ones for Your Business
