I sat, chattering in my Lululemon pants- the ones I cannot bend over in without creating a window to my rear- wishing I were anywhere else. Two weeks earlier, I had been to the allergist for testing, a sort of puncture and pause routine that left me with the most dire itch across my back. Nearly every element I was exposed to erupted into a full-blown war of the antibodies. I had left with nearly 1/2 inch thick antihistamine cream on my back, layered with tissues on top (?), and then smashed together with a sports bra. It was arguably the most uncomfortable I have felt in months.
But I returned Friday to face the pounding reality that I could not be cured of my cat or grass or mold afflictions unless I agreed to let them into my body, by way of the fatty tissue in my arm. I was forced to watch a short video about the EpiPen sitting next to me, and instructed to use the blowhorn should anything head south. I seriously questioned the likelihood I could utilize either. Considering the two situations, I decided I would blow the horn before stabbing myself with the pen.
An IV was put in at 8:30 in the morning, and the first of what would be 14 shots burrowed it’s way into my shoulder. I was a mess. Not taking too kindly to any type of needle near my bloodstream, the nurse held my feet up on her lofty bust line, keeping me from losing feeling (all puns intended). She told me I looked like her nine-year-old granddaughter. At last! Someone to break the 35+ club I seem to be categorized into these days. She returned every half an hour to add another dose, leaving me with a terrible shot-giver substitute over her lunch break. And though the substitute nurse wasn’t good at delivering the serum, she did give me a good laugh when telling me about a patient who comes in almost weekly to have his lung function checked by blowing into a tube. Except, all the office ladies rumor he’s here for attention as he passes out cold every single time, nearly dropping the thousands of dollars in equipment.
I left only once to go to the bathroom, where I discovered a fabulous antique chest of drawers. It housed the toilet paper, but I immediately began dreaming about where I would put it in my new dining room. IV dock in tow, I haggled with the office manager to negotiate a price for me. Unfortunately, the best she could do was direct me to the online catalogue for my not-so-vintage piece from National Furniture Store.
At 4pm, the nurse returned for the last time to remove the IV dock. Sensing my instant wooziness at the thought, she raised her eyebrow towards the blowhorn and said confidently, “better get the blowhorn ready.” Shoot me.