Updated: July 15, 2021
Originally Published: September 6, 2014
I had been on edge for this day to arrive ever since our son, Leo, was diagnosed with a peanut allergy at six months old. Now three years later, the moment I dreaded almost became a reality.
On a Monday evening after work, I found myself wandering through Whole Foods, specifically in the gluten-free cookie section. My husband and I had plans to leave town that Friday, and my mother was coming in to look after the kids. I remember feeling utterly drained as I picked up a box of vanilla gluten-free cookies, eagerly scanning the ingredients. The front boasted “gluten-free!” and “soy-free!” and seemed to be from a brand that prioritized food safety. These cookies contained cream, something Leo had never tried before, and I thought it would be a delightful treat for him from Grandma. As I turned to leave, I noticed a chocolate version of the same cookies and impulsively tossed a second box into my cart without checking the ingredients.
Fast forward to two days later, it was 8 p.m. My two-year-old daughter, Lily, was still awake when Leo spotted the cookie box in the pantry. “Can I have one?” he asked, and I agreed. The cookies came in pairs, and when he insisted on having two, I jokingly said, “So do my babies. One for you, one for Lily.” Lily, in a sour mood, took a tiny nibble and pushed it away. Leo, thrilled to have a cookie with cream, eagerly snatched it up. I had just taken Lily to bed when I heard him tell his dad, “This cream is spicy.”
Forty minutes later, Leo was watching cartoons with us in our bed when he came to the top of the stairs, scratching and declaring he was itchy. A glance at him sent my heart racing—his knee looked as if it had been attacked by a swarm of fire ants. I turned to Mark, “Think! What’s new? What did we just give him?” And then it hit me—the cookies.
I dashed to the pantry, grabbed the box, and discovered hazelnuts were listed as the tenth ingredient among twelve. It dawned on me that I had never actually read that list. Panic consumed me.
We quickly administered a double dose of Benadryl and applied Benadryl cream to his hives. He must have touched the back of his knee after having the cookie. We rushed him into the shower to wash off any residue. Wrapped in a towel on my lap, I repeatedly apologized to him, telling him it was my fault he ate a bad cookie. My heart shattered when he said, “Mommy, I think I’m going to be OK with that cookie.”
His eyes were bloodshot, so I put an antihistamine drop in them, checking if he could breathe. He said yes, took a deep breath, and showed me his tongue—it looked fine. Meanwhile, my dinner awaited downstairs, so Mark stayed with him while I went to eat.
Just as I settled down, Leo started to cough. My instincts went into overdrive. “Mark!” I yelled, rushing upstairs. They were sitting in the dim light, Leo’s eyes swelling and his cough worsening. “We need to call 911,” I declared. “Let’s find an EpiPen.”
A little background: We had been prescribed an EpiPen for Leo back in 2011 after an allergist’s visit. However, the doctor had refused to prescribe anything until we agreed to a treatment plan, which was absurd for a baby with a severe nut allergy. After many calls, we managed to get the prescription renewed yearly from a different doctor.
Leo was wrapped in a towel, but Mark scooped him up, and we hurried downstairs. I found the EpiPen and Mark grabbed his phone. “We can’t waste time,” I said. “I don’t even know how to get to the hospital; we’ve only lived here two months.” I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked, and my voice trembled as reality sank in. “I need to know if I should use an EpiPen on my child.” She asked for my address, phone number, and Leo’s age. “YES, I NEED AN AMBULANCE! BUT DO I NEED TO USE THIS EPIPEN ON MY CHILD?” I pleaded.
“Ma’am, I can’t tell you that. You need to remain calm and do what your doctor would want in this situation.”
Leo’s cough intensified, and I realized what the doctor would advise. “Then I need to use it,” I told her, still on the line.
As we prepared the EpiPen, three firefighters rushed into our living room, assessing Leo’s condition. One of them listened to his lungs and confirmed, “You have to use the EpiPen.” Two paramedics followed, one of whom was incredibly warm and supportive. She took my hands and said, “Mama, it’s on you. You need to do this because there may be a next time when you’re not where we can reach you.”
A police officer entered, and our small living room was suddenly filled with nine people. Leo began to gag. I read the EpiPen instructions again, my heart racing.
One firefighter held Leo’s tiny thighs, while another paramedic supported his torso. “One, two, three,” I attempted to inject the EpiPen, but it didn’t work. I tried again. No luck. Helpless, I looked at the paramedic, who quickly took it, pulled back the tip to reveal the needle, and said it would inject with force.
I was on autopilot now. “One. Two. Three.” I pressed it into his thigh. Leo screamed as if I had stabbed him. “One, two, three, four, five…” I counted to ten, then pulled it out. He leapt into my arms, and I felt crushed. I wrapped him tightly, repeatedly apologizing. I was devastated; this was worse than any previous incident.
“Mommy, I don’t want another one of those!” he cried. I promised there wouldn’t be another, ever.
Mark entered Leo’s view, and he jumped into his arms. The paramedics asked which hospital to take him to and confirmed that his cough had eased. I couldn’t see it. They packaged the EpiPen and the cookie box, loading Leo into the ambulance. They strapped him in and offered him a teddy bear, which he accepted. I stood at the back of the ambulance, tears streaming down my face as they drove away. Alone in the house, I sat on the stairs and sobbed, my mind racing with “what ifs.” What if this had happened while we were in California? What if my mother had been alone with him? What if he had fallen asleep before the reaction set in? What if he suffocated from anaphylaxis in his sleep?
Mark texted me at midnight to say they would stay until morning. I finally dozed off only to awaken at 4 a.m., reliving every moment.
At 7 a.m., Lily and I picked them up from the emergency room. I called Mark to let him know we were outside. Moments later, he emerged with my little boy, who looked battered but was alive.
As I helped Leo out of the car, he said, “Mommy, I want to go to the spiral slide.” “Of course, sweetheart, anything you want. Daddy will take you,” I replied. He shot me a stern look and said, “Mommy, you hurt me with that EpiPen.” My heart sank; he now knew the name “EpiPen.”
Three hours later, after their trip to the spiral slide, Leo wanted to go to school. Mark didn’t consult me—I would have voted against it since he had just been in the ER. However, I was relieved not to have a say in the matter.
I spent the morning in my office, trying to hold back tears while conversing with moms on the BabyCenter food allergy forum. Two recommended the same site, Kids With Food Allergies, urging me to read the “After The EpiPen” section. I typically try to heed the universe’s signs, so I visited the site, only to be blocked by a registration wall. Annoyed, I closed it but quickly remembered the universe’s nudging and registered.
The section revealed that allergic reactions can resurface after the medication wears off. Alarmed, I called Mark. “The reaction can come back. He can relapse when the meds wear off,” I informed him.
“Tell the school,” he advised. “You need to warn them.” I crafted an email to the director, explaining our recent experience and the importance of monitoring Leo closely. I assured her that this was not typical behavior. I also explained the EpiPen’s redesign, which made it different from previous models. To ensure Leo’s safety, I requested that she administer Benadryl immediately, but she informed me that it required a doctor’s order, which Mark promptly faxed over. Unfortunately, she called back to say the orders weren’t signed.
At 2:30 p.m., the school called to report that Leo was itching badly. Mark dashed out to get him.
In the end, I learned how crucial it is to stay informed and vigilant when dealing with food allergies. For anyone facing similar challenges, resources like the World Health Organization are invaluable, and essential oils can also play a role, as discussed on Intracervical Insemination.
Summary:
In a harrowing incident, a mother recounts the day she nearly caused a life-threatening allergic reaction in her son due to a misunderstanding with food allergies. After a frantic call to 911, emergency responders guide her through administering an EpiPen, highlighting the importance of awareness and preparation in managing allergies. With valuable lessons learned, the family reflects on the incident and emphasizes the need for vigilance in the face of food allergies.