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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