Saturday, January 10, 2015

From Poison to Peanuts

A year ago, if someone had told me that my shelves would be filled with Reces Pieces and Peanut M&M's, I would have thought you were crazy.  But today, when we stop by the drugstore, we always pick up at least one bag of both.  The conversation always goes something like this:

Cashier: "Oooohhh, that looks yummy! Are you guys having snacks tonight?"

Mary: "That's my medicine."

Cashier: "That is silly, candy can't be medicine!"

Mary: "You're wrong.  I am allergic to peanuts, but I finished OIT.  So that means I have to eat peanuts in the morning and at night.  So that is my medicine."

Cashier: (To me) "Gosh, that must be nice medicine.  I wish I had to take that for medicine!"

Mary: (Before I can speak) "No, it is a tiny bit yucky.  But it means I won't die from peanuts.  So that is okay."

Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined having this conversation (none-the-less imagining my 7 year old asserting herself and educating random strangers about food allergies).

Our journey has been difficult (to say the least).  While we had suspected a peanut allergy for some time (that is another story for another time), she was officially diagnosed in 2011.  That day marked the beginning of a long, scary, traumatic journey.  Mary went into anaphylaxis minutes after her test began.  Everything after that was a blur.

Over the next couple years, we battled.  We were on guard.  We carried wipes and epinephrine everywhere.  And we kept her reaction free.  Until November 20th, 2013.  That day will be permanently etched in my mind.  Mary had been sick that day (which is likely what set the stage for her reaction).  After insane amounts of fighting, we had convinced the school to agree to whole class handwashing after meal and snack periods.  When we spelled it out for them, apparently, saying that "Ice Cream Day" was a snack period was not clear enough.  No one washed their hands, and Mary touched a surface that had peanut residue.  She had an initial delayed reaction and a biphasic reaction.

After sitting in the back of two different ambulances, in the ER, I promised myself, Mary, and God that this would never happen again.  Aaryn and I had talked about OIT before, but I was so scared.  Nothing made it less scary.  I just was more afraid of losing her.

It took a while to get Mary ready for OIT.  She has both Asthma and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome.  This means that it took a lot of work to stabilize her enough to handle OIT.  After lots of work, we scheduled our first appointment.  November 3rd, 2014.  Almost exactly one year to the date.

I was terrified.  But I refused to show it.  I completely trusted Dr. Baker and his staff, so I knew that if anything bad happened, they would know how to handle it.  I chose to not tell Mary about side effects...I did not want her to go in expecting something to go wrong.  I simply said "it may be yucky, but it is going to mean that you can be safe...no more fear of dying" (Mary had asked if peanuts would kill her multiple times by this point).

On that day, we arrived early.  I showed up with enough snacks and entertainment to keep a small army busy.  They took baseline vitals, and then started with her first dose.  I watched her so closely that I am sure she thought I was crazy.  And...nothing.  Then the next dose.  And the next.  Finally, Dr. Baker came in and said that they would call it quits for the day so we did not get sick of looking at each other! And that was it.  They sent us on our way with tiny little pieces of peanuts.  It was the craziest thing ever.

We came back week after week.  Within an amazing six short weeks, Mary hit maintenance.  And that was it.  No drama.  No chaos.  No catastrophe.  In six short weeks, our lives changed forever.  The fear was gone.

We still have to read labels (Mary is considered "Bite Proof" but does not eat above her dose).  We still carry epinephrine everywhere.  But that fear is gone.  Mary can return (safely) to school.  She can have birthday cake.  She can live....without the fear of dying.
















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