The first, and the worst, was in Grade 5, in the spring, just before our school celebrated some sort of Chinese festival. We’d spent weeks preparing for it (I have no idea how long we prepared for it, but we’d begun before I was stricken, and I was still stricken when the celebration was complete) when one weekend morning I woke to horrible itching. I scratched to no relief, and when I finally found myself in front of a mirror, was horrified by the angry red welts covering my face, rendering me somewhat unrecognizable. I called out to my mother in a panic, and her reaction to my new look was less than comforting. Further inspection confirmed the presence of hives everywhere, some small and round and only beginning to blossom; others mature, fully grown, and in all manner of shape, soon to be subsumed again within the confines of my skin. About three and a half weeks would pass before I was free of them, but not before my hands had swollen to the point where I could not even bend my fingers, my feet so bloated and sensitive to touch that I could not even walk, reduced to crawling about. Worse still was the blow to my vanity: the hives never left my face, painfully altering my features in some new caricature of self from first to last day. Begging sickness and hiding from view, I missed the entire festival, including the much anticipated Chinese food feast. Mr. Litchfield made a special trip to my house that day, carrying with him enough food for my whole family. I was thrilled, but I also refusing to come to the door until he’d left. My mother would have none of that, coaxing me from hiding to thank Mr. Litchfield for his kindness. Mr. Litchfield treated my fragile vanity with more tact than I thought anyone could muster, and never once showed any of the shock or loathing I’d expected.
Testing was prescribed. I was instructed to abstain from those things I was exposed to most often...to see what might happen, or not. Then the day arrived. The allergist had arrived and inked my arms with numbers, and over each was scratched an oil, an extract of some fruit or vegetable, some dust or dander, some sap or some some-such. I can’t say how many allergens were exposed, but there were certainly enough, including dog dander. I had to abstain from those things, which apparently was to include exposure to dog dander. There was some deliberation about what to do with Cookie, our dog. I would have nothing to do with being rid of her. She was an integral part of my existence.
Monthly shots were prescribed, not that I believe ever had any effect in halting, or even lessening the effects of further outbreaks, whatsoever.
So, further outbreaks followed, and were endured. Once, when renovations were again in full swing at the Hart Street house (still some years before the addition), I was sleeping in the basement, as my bedroom was reeking of paint, the red decorations poised to be put in place. Upon waking, I climbed the stairs to wash my face, which was feeling unusually tight, just then. I gazed down the upstairs hall and wondered, in my morning confusion, who the kid was down the hall. My heart skipped a beat upon recognition. It was me. It was my reflection in a mirror set out and leaning against the far wall. My face was in such a state as to render me unrecognizable, even to myself.
I learned, in time, to take the shock I would see in others’ faces in stride. I had no choice, I could not hide away from the world for a month at a time, two or three times a year.
But it did get better. Years found the outbreaks lesser, and in time infrequent.
I learned an important lesson throughout those ensuing years. Most people have difficulty with deformity, in whatever form it may exhibit itself. They retreat from it. And from the person. Dealing with that hardens one’s soul.
