LJ Idol - Week 29: The Worst Thing I Ever Ate
LJ Idol - Week 29: Price to Play OR The Worst Thing I Ever Ate
The worst thing I ever ate, without exception, is a single bite of bruschetta with pesto.
The runner up was pretty bad too, but we're not certain exactly what it was. The main dish I was enjoying that night was a seafood scampi. It wasn't something I would normally have ordered but we were celebrating with friends so I felt like getting something special. What started out as nausea and feeling like I had somehow gotten a fishbone wedged in my throat, over the course of a few hours progressed into what seemed like a really bad, persistent asthma attack. Eventually we went to the hospital mostly because it had been going on for so long, but it was slowly progressing and getting worse.
Once there a team of doctors and nurses shot me full of epinephrine and benadryl and told me I was having an allergic reaction, probably to something I ate. They advised testing and the like, but the seafood scampi was so unusual for me we decided that I'd developed some sort of seafood allergy and put off any further testing. Seafood is pretty easy to avoid, after all, and the reaction was slow enough that it didn't seem like such a big deal.
It was a big deal.
Three months later we were again out celebrating with friends, this time to see the musical "Into the Woods." Afterward it was getting late but a few of us broke off and went out to eat and talk about the show. I remember having a really good time, all laughs and smiles. Beer was had and appetizers were ordered and life was good until the moment I took a bite of the bruschetta.
This time it happened immediately. "My throat's doing that thing again, like with the seafood."
There was a dumb pause as everyone sat looking at each other for just a moment before the table exploded into motion. Checks were called for, boxes demanded for the pizza that had just arrived. Wallets and purses were thrust open in an effort to settle the bill quickly. I protested and tried to finish my beer because the last time the reaction developed so slowly it didn't seem worth this level of fuss.
I was wrong, it got bad fast. By the time we realized how fast it was going and how bad it was getting, we were already on the road and it seemed too late to call an ambulance. Though it was the end of December in Minnesota it was raining out, making the streets slippery and terrifying. My wife started blowing through stop signs and red lights, honking her horn and blasting through the city as quickly as she could while I sat in the front seat trying desperately just to breathe, TartQueen frantically shouting directions from the back seat.
By the time we got to the Emergency Room I could barely draw air and I staggered in the doors with my wife's help. Once I managed to choke out "food allergy" the hospital exploded around me. I remember being put on a gurney and I remember lights slipping in and out of my vision as we rushed down the hall. I remember the feeling of my wife's hand slipping out of my own as they took me away from her. I remember a small, crowded room that filled with masked faces. My arm was jabbed repeatedly with epinephrine and anything else they had on hand.
I remember nothing helping and I remember being ok with that. I was slipping in and out of consciousness and each time I went under I assumed it would be the last and it just felt like drifting peacefully, without fear or regret.
* * *
A lot of what happened in the ER I didn't find out about until later from stories. dawny_darko had been filling out paperwork in admitting until a nurse came in to ask if I had a religious preference and she threw my wallet and pushed her way out to find me. I wasn't really there to hear the doctor saying "Man, I thought we lost him," which is what she was greeted to when she arrived. I saw the drying blood spray dripping down the wall later, but I wasn't really there when they stuck me to put in an IV and I shot blood across the room because my blood pressure was through the roof. I didn't know that the ER ran out of epinephrine and that one of the nurses risked their career for me by stealing more from the pharmacy because there wasn't time for paperwork.
I was meat on the table and the team working on me didn't think I would make it either. My throat was swollen closed too tight for intubation, maybe even for a tracheotomy. They just kept pouring chemicals into me, far past normal limits, in the hope that something would take.
* * *
I remember opening my eyes slowly and seeing my wife and tartqueen huddled together in the corner, trying to stay out of everyone's way. There were doctors and nurses still hurrying about, but they were cleaning up and making sure I was stable, shining lights in my eyes and asking questions. The feeling in the room was lighter. I was hooked up to an IV and breathing something through a nebulizing mask and trying to figure out what had happened. I was with friends, though, and they were smiling worried smiles, and things looked good. They showed me the blood and a doctor told me about all the epinephrine and showed me a printout of my Electrocardiogram, describing it as looking like a child's scribbling.
So naturally we started laughing and cracking jokes. The doctors admonished us to call an ambulance, next time, as five more minutes would have been too much. They then proceeded to mock my choice of attire for a night at the theater. Apparently these high-falutin' medical folk thought jeans and a South Park T-shirt just wasn't fancy enough. I got hit with a clipboard a few times when I was forced to admit to smoking in spite of my asthma. We were made to promise that I would get tested, but from our descriptions the staff narrowed it down to "something in the pesto."
They kept me in the Intensive Care Unit for the night, under observation, hooked up to monitors and machines that beeped constantly and went so far as to sound an alarm every time I nodded off and fell asleep. Dawny and TartQueen stayed by my side until I kicked them out and made them go home to get some sleep. The night nurse came by often and we chatted each time. Everyone else in the ward was a vegetable, so I got a fair amount of attention, eventually convincing my nurse to take off the oxygen monitor that sounded the alarm every time I dozed off and my breathing slowed a little.
In the morning my health was as good as it had ever been, but I was still in dire need of sleep. The day nurse wasn't as cool and insisted on hooking up all the monitors. We ended up bickering most of the morning until I finally called for a ride when she left my room and then dressed and announced my departure to the staff. I had hardly slept all night, I just wanted to be home. They managed to get their paperwork done in record time and I headed for the door.
"Sir, someone's coming with a wheelchair for you, you'll have to wait a moment."
"I don't need a damned wheelchair, I had an allergic reaction! I'm fine."
"Sir, it's hospital policy and-"
"Exit's this way, right?" I started walking out just as my chair arrived. As a compromise, I let the attendant push the chair next to me in case I might need it, which was just as well because I didn't really know where the hell I was going anyway. He made a token effort at convincing me to relax and accept a ride in the chair, so I explained to him that it was important to me that I walk out on my own.
My wife and my brother-in-law picked me up and dropped me off at home, having errands to run, and I floated through my house in a daze, unable to shake the feeling of being a ghost drifting through my old life. I made an appointment and I got my blood tests done and discovered that I have a lethal allergy to pine nuts. The second reaction was so much worse because they build on each other when they come so close. The first primed the pump, as it were.
In the following week or so I registered with Medic Alert and have worn a pendant or a bracelet ever since, though I honestly had no expectation of living through the next year. I made it through that year and a couple more, so based on Medic Alert's logo, I designed my own tattoo and paid a man to put it on my shoulder. I wear the bracelet (and carry the epinephrine) in case something happens, but the tattoo is just for me.
I still say that the next date will likely be written in permanent marker, but so far it hasn't come up and now it's nearing ten years since my last reaction. If it wasn't such a rotten time of year for it, I'd consider having a birthday party for a ten year-old. (With beer!)
The worst thing I ever ate, without exception, is a single bite of bruschetta with pesto.
The runner up was pretty bad too, but we're not certain exactly what it was. The main dish I was enjoying that night was a seafood scampi. It wasn't something I would normally have ordered but we were celebrating with friends so I felt like getting something special. What started out as nausea and feeling like I had somehow gotten a fishbone wedged in my throat, over the course of a few hours progressed into what seemed like a really bad, persistent asthma attack. Eventually we went to the hospital mostly because it had been going on for so long, but it was slowly progressing and getting worse.
Once there a team of doctors and nurses shot me full of epinephrine and benadryl and told me I was having an allergic reaction, probably to something I ate. They advised testing and the like, but the seafood scampi was so unusual for me we decided that I'd developed some sort of seafood allergy and put off any further testing. Seafood is pretty easy to avoid, after all, and the reaction was slow enough that it didn't seem like such a big deal.
It was a big deal.
Three months later we were again out celebrating with friends, this time to see the musical "Into the Woods." Afterward it was getting late but a few of us broke off and went out to eat and talk about the show. I remember having a really good time, all laughs and smiles. Beer was had and appetizers were ordered and life was good until the moment I took a bite of the bruschetta.
This time it happened immediately. "My throat's doing that thing again, like with the seafood."
There was a dumb pause as everyone sat looking at each other for just a moment before the table exploded into motion. Checks were called for, boxes demanded for the pizza that had just arrived. Wallets and purses were thrust open in an effort to settle the bill quickly. I protested and tried to finish my beer because the last time the reaction developed so slowly it didn't seem worth this level of fuss.
I was wrong, it got bad fast. By the time we realized how fast it was going and how bad it was getting, we were already on the road and it seemed too late to call an ambulance. Though it was the end of December in Minnesota it was raining out, making the streets slippery and terrifying. My wife started blowing through stop signs and red lights, honking her horn and blasting through the city as quickly as she could while I sat in the front seat trying desperately just to breathe, TartQueen frantically shouting directions from the back seat.
By the time we got to the Emergency Room I could barely draw air and I staggered in the doors with my wife's help. Once I managed to choke out "food allergy" the hospital exploded around me. I remember being put on a gurney and I remember lights slipping in and out of my vision as we rushed down the hall. I remember the feeling of my wife's hand slipping out of my own as they took me away from her. I remember a small, crowded room that filled with masked faces. My arm was jabbed repeatedly with epinephrine and anything else they had on hand.
I remember nothing helping and I remember being ok with that. I was slipping in and out of consciousness and each time I went under I assumed it would be the last and it just felt like drifting peacefully, without fear or regret.
* * *
A lot of what happened in the ER I didn't find out about until later from stories. dawny_darko had been filling out paperwork in admitting until a nurse came in to ask if I had a religious preference and she threw my wallet and pushed her way out to find me. I wasn't really there to hear the doctor saying "Man, I thought we lost him," which is what she was greeted to when she arrived. I saw the drying blood spray dripping down the wall later, but I wasn't really there when they stuck me to put in an IV and I shot blood across the room because my blood pressure was through the roof. I didn't know that the ER ran out of epinephrine and that one of the nurses risked their career for me by stealing more from the pharmacy because there wasn't time for paperwork.
I was meat on the table and the team working on me didn't think I would make it either. My throat was swollen closed too tight for intubation, maybe even for a tracheotomy. They just kept pouring chemicals into me, far past normal limits, in the hope that something would take.
* * *
I remember opening my eyes slowly and seeing my wife and tartqueen huddled together in the corner, trying to stay out of everyone's way. There were doctors and nurses still hurrying about, but they were cleaning up and making sure I was stable, shining lights in my eyes and asking questions. The feeling in the room was lighter. I was hooked up to an IV and breathing something through a nebulizing mask and trying to figure out what had happened. I was with friends, though, and they were smiling worried smiles, and things looked good. They showed me the blood and a doctor told me about all the epinephrine and showed me a printout of my Electrocardiogram, describing it as looking like a child's scribbling.
So naturally we started laughing and cracking jokes. The doctors admonished us to call an ambulance, next time, as five more minutes would have been too much. They then proceeded to mock my choice of attire for a night at the theater. Apparently these high-falutin' medical folk thought jeans and a South Park T-shirt just wasn't fancy enough. I got hit with a clipboard a few times when I was forced to admit to smoking in spite of my asthma. We were made to promise that I would get tested, but from our descriptions the staff narrowed it down to "something in the pesto."
They kept me in the Intensive Care Unit for the night, under observation, hooked up to monitors and machines that beeped constantly and went so far as to sound an alarm every time I nodded off and fell asleep. Dawny and TartQueen stayed by my side until I kicked them out and made them go home to get some sleep. The night nurse came by often and we chatted each time. Everyone else in the ward was a vegetable, so I got a fair amount of attention, eventually convincing my nurse to take off the oxygen monitor that sounded the alarm every time I dozed off and my breathing slowed a little.
In the morning my health was as good as it had ever been, but I was still in dire need of sleep. The day nurse wasn't as cool and insisted on hooking up all the monitors. We ended up bickering most of the morning until I finally called for a ride when she left my room and then dressed and announced my departure to the staff. I had hardly slept all night, I just wanted to be home. They managed to get their paperwork done in record time and I headed for the door.
"Sir, someone's coming with a wheelchair for you, you'll have to wait a moment."
"I don't need a damned wheelchair, I had an allergic reaction! I'm fine."
"Sir, it's hospital policy and-"
"Exit's this way, right?" I started walking out just as my chair arrived. As a compromise, I let the attendant push the chair next to me in case I might need it, which was just as well because I didn't really know where the hell I was going anyway. He made a token effort at convincing me to relax and accept a ride in the chair, so I explained to him that it was important to me that I walk out on my own.
My wife and my brother-in-law picked me up and dropped me off at home, having errands to run, and I floated through my house in a daze, unable to shake the feeling of being a ghost drifting through my old life. I made an appointment and I got my blood tests done and discovered that I have a lethal allergy to pine nuts. The second reaction was so much worse because they build on each other when they come so close. The first primed the pump, as it were.
In the following week or so I registered with Medic Alert and have worn a pendant or a bracelet ever since, though I honestly had no expectation of living through the next year. I made it through that year and a couple more, so based on Medic Alert's logo, I designed my own tattoo and paid a man to put it on my shoulder. I wear the bracelet (and carry the epinephrine) in case something happens, but the tattoo is just for me.
I still say that the next date will likely be written in permanent marker, but so far it hasn't come up and now it's nearing ten years since my last reaction. If it wasn't such a rotten time of year for it, I'd consider having a birthday party for a ten year-old. (With beer!)