My Son's Last Reaction

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By Kim Rutledge Bickel
 
Our littlest kiddo’s name is Charlie. He is 4 years old, but reminds us daily now that he is nearly hitting the 5-year mark. He has two older sisters, Caroline (12) and Anne-Marie (9). Charlie has severe food allergies. He is allergic to shellfish, egg, tree nuts, and other foods. He has asthma, eczema, mold allergy, and some seasonal allergies to boot. He is obsessed with football and can hold his own against Daddy pretty well. He is a lover of Beatles music, flowers and Star Wars, knights, and math. He has a mild little lisp that is cute for now, especially when followed up with his contagious laughter. It is our hope that he is defined by these characteristics, not by any obstacles.   

Charlie’s last reaction was anaphylactic and was the first major reaction since we found out about his multiple food allergies last fall. Our typical “Mom-Mobile” was loaded up with our three children and all of their miscellaneous paraphernalia. I was feeling good. It was a somewhat sunny, brisk day, and the weekend was just around the corner.

The kids were now in the habit (by necessity) of avoiding most fast foods and did not snack in the car unless I had prepared the snacks and we stopped to share together. It was a Friday, and they were like birds chirping from the back seats ... “Mom, it’s Friday. For a special treat can we get chips and soda from Walgreens when you run in? Please?”

Now such a request does not strike any anxious chords to a mom without newly diagnosed kids with food allergies, but for a parent of a child with food allergies, the possible ramifications immediately come to mind.

I decided that we had been doing well with new foods, labeling, and routines at school, so I said okay. I ran in and grabbed some chips (after repeatedly checking the contents). I declined their request to eat in the car, telling them that I needed to double-check the chips with a phone call or a visit to the manufacturer’s website.  

We pulled into the garage, I re-checked the chips, and put on an age-appropriate movie for the happy crew. I carefully doled out the chips and special drinks and slipped off to my office upstairs after a few minutes.

About five minutes later, I heard a tone that I know all too well: Charlie’s panicky tone. One he only gets when he is a bit out of breath and on the verge of tears. He was slowly making his way upstairs toward my office. I immediately sensed his fear and the quiver in his precious little voice.  “Mommy, the potato chip is cutting my throat or something. I can’t swallow it …”

I felt that adrenaline surge. I had seen him with bluish lips with his previous severe episode. I had seen him with hives. I had never seen his odd facial paleness. Nothing had prepared me for seeing his lips turn almost white. I grabbed him, ran down to the kitchen, where the antihistamines were kept, and assessed that he was not actually choking on a chip, which had been my first thought.  

I knew things were on a new level when my little guy was unable to swallow the antihistamine. I pulled up his shirt again to see that he had stridor (that sucking in at the rib cage during an asthma/respiratory reaction) quickly amping up in intensity. This time, however, I saw what I knew was the deal breaker for sure. Within seconds, his little throat was actually closing in front of me. We could see it literally pulling in and out as he was panicking and starting to run around on his tippy toes and starting to gasp for air.   
It was in that moment that I put my hands on his little shoulders and looked him firmly in the eye and said “Charlie, Mommy knows what to do and will take care of you now.” In my own head, I thought, “Well, I guess this is when one uses epinephrine.” He looked so scared, and his sisters were surprisingly strong, silent, and there for us. I pulled off the cap. We had practiced with the darn fake one so many times that it came more smoothly than I would have imagined. There was only time for action.  I firmly swung the needle into his little thigh and held it there for that 10-second count I had drilled in to all of our heads repeatedly. I called 911. By the time the phone call was over and the men were at our door with ambulance and fire truck, my brave little guy was looking fairly normal, if not a bit jazzed up, from the epinephrine in his system. He had some residual sort of involuntary sobbing that they asked me about but I was able to sit with him near the gurney in the back of the ambulance. They later told me I had saved him.

My husband met us at the hospital later. We were there for several hours in order to monitor his vitals, get some liquid steroid medication, and make sure he was not going to have biphasic reaction.  

Charlie told me on the hospital bed that he thought a friend of his might have been eating cashews and almonds pretty close to him at school.

What did I learn? I have learned to advocate to the point that teachers gain a healthy respect for the gravity of a severe food allergy. I have learned that sometimes we have to deal with some degree of lack of closure. Was there cross-contact at the school? Had I not washed his hands properly? Were the chips mislabeled? I have learned not to assume what other parents know, even if they are parents of children with food allergies. I have learned that jumping to action that day is certainly something to be proud of, and that the trust in those big brown eyes looking up at me behind lashes at least a mile long is all the thanks or motivation this allergy Mom will ever need.