On Friday night our daughter had her first food allergic reaction in 9 years.  It was also the first time she self injected and the first time she had a reaction at a friend’s without an adult present.  Her big sister also experienced the first time she was present at a reaction that she remembers.  And it was the first time I was out and received a frantic phone call about a reaction.

All in all, a lot of firsts that I would rather have done without.  While we have learned a lot from the incident including phoning 911 before phoning Mom and that all of the training that we’d done was successful, the fear box has been opened.  You know, the one you stuff all of your allergic parent fears into so that you can lead a somewhat normal life?

I think for us complacency had set in a little bit.  Megan’s friend had checked the homemade cookies with his mom (who I was out to dinner with) but neither he nor my allergic child or her sister thought to take a look at the drink they’d chosen to have with their dinner.  Since this house is really a “home away from home” for my children, they never even second guessed that the drink she had might be a problem.  After feeling her tongue and throat begin to swell after just the first sip, both she and her sister realized that there was kiwi in it, one of Megan’s food allergies.

Immediately, Megan self injected the epi-pen, the kids called us at the restaurant, where I instructed them to phone 911.  Thankfully, our friends had 2 cars so my husband headed for their house to meet up with  the ambulance (he actually beat the ambulance there), the other dad stayed at the table and paid for our unsipped drinks and my girlfriend drove me to meet the ambulance at the hospital.  Thank God for great friends!

While it’s happening, you just go into auto-pilot:  talking calmly on the phone, telling your child she did the right thing, heading to the hospital while calming down your other child on the phone because she’s distressed, meeting the ambulance coming in, answering questions from the doctor and nurses and sitting with your child while she remains in the hospital for hours of observation.

It’s afterwards that’s difficult.  The quiet where you realize that fear box has been opened and no matter how well the situation was handled, your brain moves at the speed of light, imagining scenarios that might have been.

So now I hold my child close and try not to smother her.  We hold each other as parents and try to breathe.  We tell our friends, family and co-workers about the incident and struggle to put on a brave face.  But under it all, I’m trying vainly to close that box again.