I've got red on me — again

No, not The Hives ...

... but these hives

 

Allergies are hell.

They killed my father.

I’m not sure why, unless it’s psychosomatic or a hell of a coincidence, that a (suspected) severe allergic reaction has colored the last 12 days of my life. Each morning I awake to a new batch of itching, screaming hives, an angry mob swarming somewhere on my body. By noon, if I’m lucky, the swelling calms to an angry skin flush. I look like I fell asleep in the sun.

Nothing has been spared. Nothing. Today my whole face is swollen and hot to the touch.  My husband and I noted that I would not look good with those coveted collagen-injected lips so many women of Hollywood are sporting.

I’ve been to the doctor twice.

I’ve had a cortisone shot.

I’m living on anti-histamines.

I have an appointment for a full line of tests. But that’s not until next week.

I must wait.

Suspecting the lavender-infused laundry detergent I bought a month ago, I’ve been washing and rewashing everything.

Suspecting certain foods, I’ve been eating cautiously, making note of everything that crosses my lips.

Suspecting my overgrown yard and all its pollen and mold spore glory, I’ve not set food outside to tend to any of it.

I’m inside, slightly drugged, with ice packs where they need to be.

What a life.

Allergies are hell.

 

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Of course, it's the apocalypse

… or Armageddon or the Rapture.

I don’t know. I stopped getting the paper a while ago.

Do I care? Heck, looks like most of us here (as in the gay, liberal, heathen, artsy-fartsy burg where I reside) are heading in the same direction. We’ll have a party.

At least I don’t have to worry so much that my roots have grown out an inch and a half.  The scale at the doctor’s office says I’m eating way more than I trick myself into thinking every day. Bah! I say. More insulation against the eternal hellfire.

End of the world? Judgment day? I say bring it! As a dearly departed friend used to say to me though a veil of laughter-induced tears: We’re riding the greased pole to hell, sister.

Perhaps in hell, with a backdrop of molten lava and flickering flames and all the obligatory thigh and butt maximizing red jumpsuits we’ll be wearing, I won’t feel so bad that my skin is covered head to toe in huge, angry red welts. I won’t be shunned; I’ll be well accessorized.

So, yeah, what better time to break out in a mysterious case of the hives? The itching began last week on the tops of my feet. I was on a long walk around the neighborhood when I stopped to give my feet tops a good scratch. I blamed it on the wet grass. After a while, I found myself doing odd things like leaning against sign posts to scratch with abandon. When I reached my car,  I took off my sandals and found my feet screaming with red blisters.

As the week went on the creeping malaise migrated north, sparing nothing along the way. I was a walking exclamation point.

Part of me is wondering if this is my early pass to hell so that by the time I get there I’ll be as red and miserable as the devil. Part of me is wondering if I’ll be wearing a head-to-toe veil when I go out tonight. Part of me (remember there are more parts of me than ever before) is wondering if I brought this on myself. Not so much in a Catholic guilt kind of way, although I know that stuff is ingrained, but in a gee-how-much-more-stress-and-worry can I carry before some major system in my body just fails?

The doctor thinks food or environmental allergy. Shots and many tests await.

Cheers. I’ll either see some of you in the fiery furnace or I’ll post on Tuesday.

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