Page 37 of If All Else Sails
When I asked if this reaction was typical, he gave me an emphatic and way too excited no. Good to know I’m a complete freak of nature.
“To answer your question, I’ve never had a run-in with poison oak before,” I tell him.
My words are understandable but mu?ed, what with the swelling in my lips, tongue, and throat. It’s gone down significantly since they gave me a shot of corticosteroids a few hours ago. But I still look completely freakish.
My throat closing up was actually frightening. The strange tingling sensation in my hands and mouth that I noticed on the drive turned into massive swelling. To the point where I was struggling to breathe and starting to panic by the time I pulled up in front of the ER.
Should I still have been operating a motor vehicle? Probably not. But swollen beggars can’t be choosers, and thankfully, the hospital was only about fifteen minutes away.
Wyatt was so concerned—probably that Jacob would blame him for my untimely demise—that he yanked his crutches from the back and hobbled inside the hospital shouting before I could even get out of the car.
And then he passed out on the floor.
The two of us make quite a pair.
I don’t know who parked Wyatt’s car. I don’t know where Wyatt went after we were separated in triage or what’s wrong with him.
I only know that it’s been a few hours, and I’m able to breathe normally again. The swelling in my lips is starting to go down, at least according to the selfies I took before and after the steroids kicked in. I currently look more like someone who’s had a normal amount of lip filler versus one of those plastic-surgery-gone-wrong people. Or a monster in a horror flick.
Now, if only the fluid in my arms and legs would dissipate.
I wonder where Wyatt is now.Howhe is now. If his fever is some kind of virus or somehow related to his injury. The worry I feel is a lot gentler than it was before—the kind you have for a friend or someone you actually like. Probably a remnant of his fever-sweet moments with me in the car. When he was in his Dwight concussion era.
“I’ve heard of reactions like this, but I’ve never seen anything close,” Dr. Charlie says. I think it’s about the fourth time he’s said something similar. “You have no allergies to any other foods? Nothing?”
“Nope. Not to pets or peanut butter or even poison ivy.”
My mom had me run through a series of allergy tests after one of my classmates had a severe reaction to the eggs in another student’s birthday cupcakes. I think we were all traumatized seeing an ambulance driving Matthew away from the school.
The rest of the year, birthdays were celebrated without food.
But I guess the doctor glossed right over the poison oak allergy test. Or maybe it’s a new allergy? I’ve heard of them developing or worsening over time.
“Is there anyone you need to call?” Dr. Charlie asks.He’s no longer touching me, but I swear, he’s looking at my arm like he’s tempted to shake it again. “Anyone who can drive you home?”
I decide not to explain the Wyatt situation. “Um, no. But I should be fine to drive. I’m uncomfortable, but I can move.”
I lift my arms to demonstrate, but that makes the fluid jiggle again. Dr. Charlie’s expression is almost hungry. I briefly consider pressing the call button. But I’m not sure what I’d say to a nurse who came—Help, I’m afraid the doctor might kidnap me and lock me in his basement so he can study me like some kind of experiment?
Nope. I’ll just get through this, find Wyatt, and get us out of here.
“Let me check one more thing,” the doctor mutters distractedly, lifting my arm by the wrist.
Maybe Ishouldhave pushed the call button.
Dr. Charlie jiggles me again. I can almost hear his interior monologue, which I imagine like a narrator from one of thoseNational Geographicshows. In my mind the narrator is also British, though Dr. Charlie has a light Southern lilt.
Fascinating!my inner doctor monologue opines.Despite the steroids, the patient retains so much subcutaneous fluid she appears to be filled with Jell-O. When fingertips press into the dermis, for a few seconds the indentation will remain and—
“Would you mindnotpoking me?” I ask. I’ve finally met my limit of prodding. Jiggling. Being stared at like a freak of nature.
Though physical touch is my love language in theory, actual touch is also...complicated. Because I don’t always feel comfortable being touched. Especially not by people I barely know, doctors included. But this alsohurts, what with my skin stretched and taut to accommodate all the fluid.
Dr. Charlie drops his hand but doesn’t move away.
“I’m starting to feel like the human equivalent of a stress ball,” I tell him. Not that I owe him an explanation.
His eyes light up. “Yes! That’s exactly the description I was looking for.”
