ReluctantFarmChick.com

So I finally got to go see the Allergist.  Again.  I went last month, but when I made the appointment they failed to tell me to cease and desist any allergy medication I was taking.  I should have known this all by myself, had I been thinking.  But I wasn’t thinking, and nor did they think for me.  So I made another appointment - one month out.  First appointment of the day.  Lucky me (didn’t have to wait for the doctor to be done with patients who might have arrived late or who use up more than their allotted time).  I didn’t totally know what to expect.  I knew that a person gets these "scratches" with various toxins, and then they rate your reaction to these toxins.  But again, I wasn’t really thinking.  Nothing new there. 

After the doctor rolled up my sleeves (I had short sleeves on - she just rolled them up further), she cleaned both arms thoroughly with a drenched, single cottom ball (no avoiding the drops - she meant business. . . I was to be all clean/er).  Then she took this thingy which I can’t describe, and the best picture I could find is this:

That thingy in the hand is like 8 "scratchers" with needles in each middle.  The scratchers have been "living" in a puddle of allergen matter.  The doctor put all eight against my skin and wiggled the device around to make that poison enter my body.  "Just like a little scrape," she said.  (FYI - that thingy is a one-time use deal.  She put it in the sharps container after she used it once. I was relieved to see this.)   She had 3 trays like the one above.  But I think only 8 of the 9 slots had stuff in them - I only see room on my arms for eight sets.  So she went down the insides of both my arms with these poison "scrapes".  I asked her if I could scratch them.  She thought I was kidding.  Right after she was done administering the poison, this is what my arms looked like (BTW: It’s hard to take pictures of your own arms using an iPhone - excuse the angle):

I’m not joking when I tell you I started itching.  I mean, I’M NOT JOKING!!!  The doctor looked at me like I was so cute, and I couldn’t possibly be ready to scratch.  Let me tell you, I was READY TO SCRATCH!!!

But I didn’t. 

Not even once.

I did use the magazine to fan madly, but no touchy, no scratchy.

She said she’d be back in 20 minutes.  Fine.  I’ll just sit here and wait.  Don’t mind me.  I’m fine.  Really.  (Can you say "creeping madness"?)  Never mind!  I’m fine.

She came back 20 minutes later.  Her eyes flew open.  She said "OMG, I’m so sorry!  OMG!" etc etc etc. 

Now, her reaction was of only slight comfort to me.  See, it’s not like I’m surprised I have allergies.  I made the appointment after all.  I KNOW I have allergies.  I was just trying to figure out exactly to what (other than cats, cleaning, cooking, loud kids, and disrespect).  But to be completely honest, I did sort of relish her huge surprise.  She said "you must be itchy!" 

Umm, let me think about that one, hmmmm.  YYYYEEEESSSSSSSSSS I’m about to climb the walls!!!

She kept on making exclamations of shock/horror/surprise.  It was enough to disrupt my crazy desire to scratch the skin off my arms and start making me worry about whether she’d let me walk out of the office without some sort of insulated protective suit against the terrible out-doors.  There were welts on my arm.  The largest were probably dime-size.  There were three of those (Cats, Dust mites, and . . . can’t remember, maybe Ragweed).  After listening to her go on about it all, I realized that it wasn’t the size of my reaction to individual toxins, but the fact that there were scratches from every single batch that had a more-than-mild reaction.  She was also very excited about my reaction to molds.  Of all the batches, I thought the mold one looked the least worrisome.  But she explained that the mold scratches were actually only very mild toxins, and most people didn’t react to them much at all.  I had mosquito-bite size reactions for all the molds.  My arms were totally red and splotchy.  I’d never seen anything like it.  I am not allergic to horses at all.  But I am crazy allergic to their environment.  I can play golf, because that grass is fine with me, but the trees on golf courses put out pollens that might make me stop breathing at any moment.  The way she was talking, my life is just about over.  I can kiss it all good bye.  I will check in to my glass room, and never venture out. Ever.  I was all excited about walking out of there with these huge growths on my arms so people could marvel at this freak of nature and give me all sorts of sympathy, but that didn’t happen.  She washed me down with that glorious and generous alcohol rub again, and the itch (and the lumps) all but disappeared.  This is a picture of that. . . sorry it’s not as exciting as I’ve built it up to be:

The doctor was kind enough to take the picture for me, and asked me to email a copy to her.  It’s not that impressive, looking at it.  But it gives you a slight idea.

I left her office with a whole sheaf of papers:  the kind of whole-house filter I need.  The kind of pillows and covers - both for pillows and mattress and comforter.  The dehumidifier - to keep the humidity below 40% (my hair doesn’t do well with humidity over that anyways - I’ll play that game).  I was waiting for her to write an order that would prevent me from ever cleaning or cooking again.  When I said so, she just looked at me like I was confused.  Duh.  She gave me medicines, and coupons for medicines.  And brochures from several vendors pushing their wares on poor allergy-stricken people like myself.  She told me I can definitely NOT work on the hay process (oh woe is me, reluctant no more).  And I shouldn’t ever mow the grass, unless I’m wearing a significant (and nerdy) face mask.  And on.  And on.  And on.  She says there’s never a season or place where I’m not allergic to something.  How terribly comforting.

Whatever.

I have been debating for a long time going for allergy shots.  She said I’d only have to have 2 a week for the first several months (TWO a WEEK!??!?).  And eventually I could wean myself down to 2 a month over the next 5 years (FIVE YEARS?!??!?).  Umm.  Or I could just itch.  And scratch.  And water.  And snort. Just like I’ve been doing for 40 over 30 years. 

Every time I‘m compelled invited encouraged commanded begged I go out for farm stuff, there are certain things I must take with me.  By now you’d think I’d a) know exactly what I need; or at the very least b) have a spot for all these things.  But no.  That’s not how my amazing brain works.  See, the longer it takes me to remember, but more importantly find these essentials, the longer I delay the inevitable.  Sometimes I go so far as to get to the job site, only to have to return for something.  Just writing about it amazes me - this is exactly what totally annoys me about my kids - their endless delay tactics.  Hmmmm.  They DO learn by example (note to self:  only use delay tactics when kids aren’t watching).

It’s hard to say which one has highest priority.  The things I most easily grab are

and

because these are things I grab every time I leave the house, regardless of my activity.

The other thing that should be fairly natural and habitual for me, but isn’t is:

I need to be taking these every day because life without them is just a drip drag.  I can’t make sense of what exactly I’m allergic to, because sometimes I’m exposed to NOTHING and I about drown in my own . . . you know.  And other times I’m out there working my butt off and breathing in all kinds of toxins, and I’m totally fine.  I’m putting an end to that - hopefully - with a visit to a new allergist lady from Egypt who started taking patients in a nearby office.  Appointment is made.  Hope she knows her stuff, because . . . because I need her to.

The next item that usually is a no-brainer for me to grab, and I basically know where it is (at least one of three places it probably got put) is my favorite hat.  I actually put this in Prince Farming’s Christmas stocking one year, but I have since annexed it back.  I like it because it has a good fit, my pony tail can hang out the back, and the bill/shade thingy is long enough to keep the sun off my face mostly.  And I also LOVE what it says (which is why I bought it in the first place, but obviously "Boss-hood" has switched hands.

Now come the things that I struggle with.  Not on purpose.  Not because I want to.  It just happens.  I really need to ALWAYS take these with me

so that my nails don’t look worse than this when I  get back from work (this was obviously a SHORT work time - normally I have to go mining to make them look almost this good).        

Actually I count myself lucky.  With a trip coming up, I could have BET that a nail would break or get ripped off at the quik.  Most of the time my nails break doing something that should not cause such damage.  Harmless things like closing the trunk on my car or filling the tank with gas.  I’m holding my breath - only 2 days to go.  Watch me break a nail in the airport.

I have been known to start working without gloves, and then remember that they are part of my essential set, so I buzz back up to the house and grab them.  And a drink.  And switch the laundry over from the washer to the dryer.  And check to make sure my son flushed his toilet.  And clean my sunglasses.  And put the last few dishes in the dishwasher and start it.  And then buzz back down to wherever Prince Farming has me working.  Of course it’s not long before I desperately need this.   I don’t always buy water, because we have fantastic spring water on the farm.  Mostly I have bottled water and then refill the bottles several times till they’re just too trashed to be used anymore.  I always have bought water on hand because sometimes the rain causes our water to get muddy cloudy.  But that’s a post all on it’s own.

One of Prince Farming’s pet peeves is when I show up ill-equipped to work.  Most of the time the cause is probably my feet.  I’ve already told you I don’t want a boot tan.  So I farm in flip flops (sorry - forgot the picture for that one - might insert it later).  But in a perfect world on a perfect farm day, I’d show up for Prince Farming fully dressed, including (but not limited to) these: