Allergic To . . .What?

After three visits to an allergist, which involved being poked in the arms and taped on my back in order to press unknown substances into my body, this Friday morning he rejected me, announcing that I showed no signs of being allergic to anything. Great! Never mind that my face, chest and neck are still streaky red and on fire.

So he sends me back to the dermatologist. I drive straight to his office and, standing at the desk of the busiest doctor in town, I say, “I know he is the busiest doctor in town, but I have been sent back to him by the allergist and either I see him swiftly or I shoot myself—whichever comes first” This gets their attention. All four of the receptionists stop what they are doing and look up at me, taking in the sight of my spottily crusty, inflamed face.

“Can you come in at 8:00AM on Monday?” the woman in front inquires, her face warm with compassion. “Will you be home this afternoon? I can talk with him and see if he can fit you in this afternoon,” she offers. I thank her profusely and give her the necessary phone numbers.

I also ask her to reorder the steroidal cream I was using weeks ago. It hurt like blazes but seemed to help.

But it turns out that the two doctors—allergist and dermatologist--must confer before any decisions about meds can be made.

So now I wait for the two of them to decide upon Next Steps For Stranahan, which may involve at least one biopsy of the affected skin. Never mind, there are acres to choose from.

Then there is some fancy Yale Medical School allergist, who, I am told, “can test you for everything”—what an appalling thought— to whom I could be sent, but I pray not.

I am making every effort to keep my sense of humor about this unpleasant turn of events. My walking companion says kindly, “I don’t even notice it,” which, instead of comforting me as she intends, lets me know that she hasn’t actually looked at me for two weeks.

 Well, to be fair, when you think of it, we are walking side by side, so she is not really seeing my face head on. And then there is my hat, the bright blue, Jackie O dark glasses and the scarf loosely wrapped around my flaming neck . . .

Still, contrast that with the reaction of my pharmacist today when I walked in in hopes of securing the steroidal cream from him. “Wow, Cecily! That’s some rash you’ve got all over your face!” That’s what happens when you’ve known your pharmacist all of your life.

The steroidal cream not yet authorized, I hang out at the pharmacy, making short work of an entire Kit Kat. It’s my opinion that chocolate is a powerful prescription for anything that ails you.

 Having never had a allergy in my life--I can stuff myself with peanut butter--It has occurred to me that, over time, I may have become allergic to myself: that 81 years of being me have thinned my skin and done me in, at least for now.

Nonetheless, I totally resist allowing this situation to become a drama; I won’t have it. I am going onto Amazon, as my daughter suggested, and buying the post- face- lift ice mask that fits your face perfectly—with a place to breathe--and has, I’m told, a band that goes around the back of your head to hold it in place.

When this helpful article arrives I intend to remain on my back, face-iced, on the living room couch for indefinite periods, hoping that, at some point, when I get up, I will look in the mirror and, once again, recognize myself. 

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Happy Thanksgiving everyone! With all the darkness in the world we can still be light- bearers of gratitude.