I barely slept a wink last night.
Logan had his last dose at 7:30 p.m., which technically was actually only 1/3 of the actual dose. He coughed a few times, got a stomach ache, and mentioned once his mouth was a little itchy but nothing escalated enough where I felt like Epi was needed. Thank God. 2x in one day is more than enough for me!
He woke up coughing in the middle of the night and had an upset stomach so I brought him into bed with me and basically listened to the air going in and out of his chest for the remainder of the night.
Will this ever get easier?
I sure hope so.
This morning all of the kids were up at 6 so I let them play as I watched each second tick by until the moment I was dreading: 7:30 a.m. How can 12 hours go by so fast?
Can I just take a minute and explain the anxiety that comes with dosing?
I take out his solution from the fridge and I stare at it for a minute. It looks so harmless just sitting there in the glass jar. I shake it a few times and take a deep breath. I find the syringe and grasp it in my hand, willing it to revolt in some way so that I don’t have to follow through. I grab our stack of OIT forms and check, double check, and triple check the amount I am supposed to dose him with. He is currently getting 1 mg/mL. 3mL total.
I slowly insert the syringe and withdraw the solution making sure not to go over the line marked 3mL.
I pack up the solution and place it back in the fridge, lest I be *that* mom who accidentally leaves it out and spoils a 2 week supply.
I call Logan over in my best nonchalant, “hey dude, this is so normal and casual, no big deal whatsoever” voice.
He walks over and we look at one another.
The syringe in my hand.
The weight of it growing by the second.
We both know what it is.
It is poison.
Poison I have told him to absolutely avoid at all costs for the last 6 years of his life.
Poison I have feared he might accidentally come into contact with at some point.
Poison that swelled up his sweet face and started closing his airway as we sat in Olive Garden when he was 18 months old.
These memories haunt me.
I have loaded said poison into a harmless looking syringe and I am preparing to hand it to him.
To ask this 6 year old son of mine to trust me, and drink the very thing I told him would make him very sick.
The very thing that *did* make him seriously ill less than 24 hours before.
Do you know what that feels like?
It feels like I take out a gun, load a single bullet in it, and then hand the gun to my child. I ask him to place it between his lips and pull the trigger. Praying, behind a fake comforting smile, that the chamber fired is blank.
I know that might seem too offensive or graphic to some but that is the best way I can communicate to you the emotion coursing though my veins at dose time.
I do this 2 times a day. 12 hours apart.
I am sure some of you reading this are thinking “how then can you consent to this treatment? Isn’t the risk too great?”
Of course the risk is great! My child’s life in on the line.
However, the truth is, his life is on the line every single bite of food he takes. Forever.
And so if by doing OIT I can help reduce his reactions in the future, I am willing to do just about anything.
This is the life of an allergy mom.
We make hard decisions in the face of uncertain odds and pray we don’t end up doing more harm than good.
You know what keeps me going?
Had he complained once yesterday and asked us to please stop, we absolutely would have. Instead, he encouraged *us*. He is mature beyond his years for sure and I know that is probably because he has had to tackle obstacles higher and far more challenging than many grown adults. His allergies have given him a heart that is strong, compassionate, and empathetic. Simply put, his allergies have been a gift to our family in many ways. Even though it certainly doesn’t always feel that way…
After yesterday’s traumatizing events, we agreed to take Logan to Target today to let him pick out something for himself. Some may call this bribery, but I like to think of it as appropriate compensation for offering your body up to medical research. Heehee. As we were driving there, Logan was admiring his Spiderman backpack that holds his allergy and asthma meds. Our conversation went like this:
Logan: I sure do like my Spiderman backpack. I think it looks so cool and it helps me so much. When I grow up into a man I won’t be able to wear it anymore because it will be too small.
Me: I think you’re right. It might not fit very well in a few years.
Logan: Well, that is okay. I will just buy a bigger one. Do you think I can keep this Spiderman one too and take it with me when I grow up and move out?
Me: Sure buddy. But why would you want a backpack that is too small?
Logan: Because it is so special to me. It reminds me that you love me so much and you always want to keep me safe by making sure I have my medicine with me in case I have a reaction.
Me: (fighting back the massive elephant tears filling my eyes) I think that is a great idea, Logan. And you’re right. I love you so very much.
Do you see, friends?
This life we have been dealt is hard. No doubt. But through every single trial, I am constantly reminded of the bigger picture. I am encouraged that we even have options like OIT these days. And even if it doesn’t work for Logan, at least we tried. His life is worth it.
The best news of all? God is still good.