Getty Images
By the 30th poke, my patience at the allergist's office was as perforated as the skin on my inner forearm. It was a moment of resignation mixed with mocking irony – testing for inhalant allergies with 30 skin pricks in my 30th year.
Never in my life had I suffered the effects of seasonal allergies, yet there I sat in the cramped office of a well-intentioned but barely comprehensible allergist. She worked quickly, penning and numbering lines on my arm, then doling out swift pokes of pure allergens.
These scratch tests check dozens of common allergens, from oak trees to dust mites, comparing reactions to each. As large, itchy welts grew on my skin like a series of red rising suns on the horizon of my arm, it was clear that my allergy-ignorant years were behind me.
The height of each welt was measured on a scale of one to four, revealing a strong reaction to various grasses. Apparently, there exists more than the green variety – Bluegrass, Timothy, Redtop – that suddenly and inexplicably do not agree with my existence.
I could make out from the allergist's mumblings that I required a second round of intradermal tests, where the allergen is actually placed just below the surface of the skin.
More lines and more skin pricks later, the allergist's clearest words were spoken. I was allergic to trees, weeds and grass.
Sorry? Perhaps I misunderstood. Maybe the fact that it was the dead of December, or that it had taken five months to get this appointment, had muddled my comprehension. The allergist's enunciated repetition revealed no such luck – I was allergic to summer.
Other mild allergens included dust and cats, but those are easy to avoid, and fortunately no felines live at my house. But how exactly does one avoid the greens of the outdoor season?
Enter the solution – prescription medication. The moment felt like a conversion, believing that I could exchange my suffering for the pharmaceutical promised land. Akin to Moses of the Bible, my 10 commandments of prescriptions were the laws to govern an unruly and difficult group of symptoms.
In my naiveté, for the two years prior, I had treated these symptoms (runny nose, sinus congestion and watery, itchy eyes) with cold medications. The heretic suggestion of seasonal allergies had never entered my thinking. Allergies may have existed in the worlds of other people, but they weren't in mine.
Faced with greater and greater discomfort, critical thinking forced itself forward. It struck me that the treasonous symptoms only appeared after my second son was born. Could allergies suddenly befall someone later in life like some sort of midlife crisis, with none of the excitement and all of the uncomfortable consequences?
As I sat in the allergist's office on a spongy orange chair from the seventies, I shook my head in disbelief, trying to grasp her explanation of women's chemistry and the immune system. My feminist rant got stuck in the back of my throat – don't we blame enough problems on "female hormones"? Everything from premenstrual syndrome irritability to pregnancy cravings to emotional volatility, and now the development of seasonal allergies? Was this really a professional medical office or the witch doctor's hut?
But, like anyone desperate to understand their condition, how could I deny it? Female body chemistry has been known to change dramatically following pregnancy, labour and delivery. Could allergies be any different? Without any knowledge to think otherwise, I left the office, a stack of prescriptions in hand.
As the outside world greened up, days blended to weeks of little to no relief. Daily life in this state is a challenge. Anything more than 10 minutes outside aggravates my symptoms. A recent excursion to the family cabin was cut short when I had to leave my family behind to enjoy the Manitoba sun without me.
With swollen, bloodshot and itchy eyes, I am forced to keep sunglasses on, Bono-style, indoors at restaurants. The frequent sneezing (and emptying of tissue boxes) occurs at an alarming rate. Then there is the constant explanation to people that I don't have a cold – it's just allergies. With two curious and rambunctious small boys who live for the outdoors of our acreage, can I survive the summer? The truth is, I don't know.
So far, no combination of prescription medications has offered relief, likely, I'm told, because my system has been so overwhelmed that medication will take time to take effect.
Meanwhile, there have been no miraculous healing snakes. No bread from heaven that I can actually taste. And the only parting of water here is the alternating running nostril. By confession, I have not been faithful to pharmacy, having used a popular sinus rinse pot, moistened tea bags on my eyes and even homeopathy, in my desperation.
In the interests of surviving until September, I have one last "Hail Moses" – this summer, if you see a woman in a dust mask and a pair of goggles corralling two young boys, you'll know it's not a catastrophic exodus. It's just outdoor playtime.
Chantal Wiebe lives in West St. Paul, Man.