Readers who’ve been with me since the start of this blog may remember when it was still referred to in ancient journalistic terms as a column (back in the dark ages of 2006).

How fortunate I am as an allergic parent and journalist to have this cathartic outlet for my allergy angst, advice, experience and musings; and even more, to have such an amazing conduit to reach all of you.

Excuse me for waxing nostalgic, but ever since my kids’ beloved principal announced his retirement in early March, then took a leave for a hip replacement three weeks later, I’ve been plummeted backward in time, straight to the early years of my first-born son’s school life.

It seemed like Lucas was the first anaphylactic kid at his school, which gave me new trails to blaze back in 2005 when he was entering junior kindergarten. (Note: in Canada we start kindergarten a year earlier than in the U.S.).

I was a mess. His first teacher was assuring and accessible to begin with, but only willing to go so far in terms of food accommodation or flexibility in her classroom. At some point in our preliminary meetings, she actually suggested home schooling. That just about did me in.

But the principal at the time seemed to better grasp the need to keep Lucas safe from his allergens (peanuts, tree nuts, egg, shellfish, kiwi, poppy, mustard and other) at school.

She understood the brand new (and groundbreaking) Sabrina’s Law, but she up and quit the profession by end of November, leaving us with a series of retired principals to take her place for the remainder of the year. And leaving me to start over and over again.

But with each new acting principal that school year came new ideas, better solutions, greater sensitivity and an ease of communication. I was no longer scared to return to the principal’s office to revise a plan that didn’t seem to be working (like dealing with supply teachers and field trips).

And it wasn’t long before I realized that our Allergy Action Plan could include having me lead the school staff through bi-annual allergy sessions, having EpiPens getting placed throughout the school, the establishment of allergy-awareness policies and communication for the whole school (not just Lucas’ classroom), and so much more.

That was the good part. But Year One was also a treadmill of meetings as issues arose and new principals came in. It was emotionally draining, confusing and beyond time consuming.

Then it came. May 2006. The phone call that changed everything.

Next: A Principal with Anaphylaxis? Great! Er, I mean…

“Sorry ma’am, but your son cannot board this plane if he hasn’t been cleared by our med desk at least 48 hours in advance,” says the airline employee at the gate in Miami. “It’s the new policy ma’am. Nothing I can do about it ….”

“Do you hear what you’re saying to me?” I respond, repeatedly, with as much restraint as humanly possible (I’m well aware that any hint of aggression will get me nothing but a personal escort out of Miami International and a byline on the Air Canada black list).

My eyes are welling, my voice is cracking, my hands are shaking. Honey is in the gift shop with the kids buying gum; a line is starting to form behind me as I’m facing what seems the biggest human rights moment of my life.

“It’s 2011. We’re in America. Do you hear what you’re saying to me?” I add to my mantra.

All I was looking for was a quick conversation with someone from the flight crew so I could let them know about Lucas’ allergies and see about a p.a. announcement. I wasn’t requesting Air Canada’s new nut-free buffer zone, which I already know requires advance medical clearance.

I attempt to clarify this point several times, but according to this employee, what I’m requesting is irrelevant. “Your son is not allowed to fly without advance medical clearance because of his peanut allergy, and it’s too late for that.

“I’m sorry, but that’s what the policy says, ma’am!”

Resistance – I’m accustomed to. Ignorance – I’ve come to expect. But shameless discrimination against my innocent 8-year-old boy? I’m sick.

***
For me, there’s nothing friendly about the skies except on the occasion when you get an obliging flight attendant who’s happy to make a timely announcement asking passengers to refrain from eating peanuts and tree nuts on the plane; who’s willing to not serve or sell our allergens on board our flight; and who possesses the common sense and basic sensitivity we allergy parents pray for every time we fly.

You don’t always encounter these angels of flight, but they are out there. Well, at least they were out there until our fair Air Canada was led by its regulating body, the Canadian Transportation Agency (CTA), to adopt its nut-free buffer zone policy in late 2010. This is undoubtedly the cause for the anti-allergy confusion in Miami.

Ahh, Air Canada’s new buffer zone – the one “nut-free” row behind and in front of (but not beside) a medically approved allergic passenger, “set up in order to help avoid the risk of exposure.” Yada yada.

I never post anything on my Facebook wall. Never had a good reason to move past my inherent voyeurism.

But on the morning of this year’s Santa Claus Parade in Toronto – the 106^th seasonal dose of pre-Christmas spirit in the city – I couldn’t resist telling my random little Faceworld about my shining little elf.

What forward-thinking Jewish mother could hold back sharing the irony and sweetness of her edgy, third-grade super-athlete missing his basketball game to play Santa’s helper and spread the Christmas cheer in a sparkly red and gold costume, topped with a cap and bell? Priceless. Right?

I thought so, but turns out my elfin 8-year-old saw no humour in what he eagerly signed up to do a year earlier, and what I ultimately moved mountains for him to do safely – in the allergy sense of the word – because I wanted to believe his change of heart was just last-minute jitters. After all it was Lucas, not me, who had been counting down the years to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.

Yup, my father, my very Jewish, very philanthropic father, has been a clown in the Santa Claus Parade for 20 years. He, like a select group of other disguised do-gooders ­­– including some of Canada’s most prominent businessmen – actually pay to play. Believing in Santa, Chanukah Harry or the return of Lord Rama is totally beside the point.

This unsung clown posse not only leads the annual procession, but hours before the 12:45 p.m. start time, they’re geared up to visit the Hospital for Sick Kids and spread cheer to the little ones who don’t have the strength to spend the day curbside.

And so our story goes, Lucas has been watching his clown of a grandpa toss candy to kids and inspire fanfare like a bona fide celebrity for as long as he can remember. He would bring his grandfather in for show-and-tell and tell anyone who was listening that, when he turns 8, he too will be in the parade. My father was overjoyed by Lucas’ interest and was equally excited about his grandson’s inaugural year.

When the news quickly came that he was going be an elf on the Toys ‘R Us float, Lucas was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about the whole prospect. That was 10 months ago.

Fast forward to three weeks before the parade, when I receive my letter detailing the events of the day. Among the many strict instructions, it said my child must be dropped at a community centre on one end of the city at 10:15 a.m. and picked up at a building on the other end six hours later. And in bold, ABSOLUTELY NO PARENTS ARE ALLOWED BEYOND THE DROP OFF POINT.

When my older son Lucas was first diagnosed with multiple food allergies (including The Peanut) six years ago, we were without Sabrina’s Law.  Funding for food allergy research was microscopic at best. There were no nut-free Mars Bars (least they weren’t marketed that way), no allergy-safe schools, few support or education groups and no websites, magazine or online forums devoted to living with anaphylaxis.

That word itself – anaphylaxis – was only really known to people with it. Nut-free may not even have been a term yet. I remember checking our allergist’s (The Allergist’s) website after our first visit to find nothing more than you’d find today in a Wikipedia definition of The Peanut Allergy.

The expression The Peanut Allergy suggests it means one thing. But as most of us seasoned allergics know, every reaction, every person, every allergy is different. It is only through experience that you can really understand this. It is only through experience that you can even begin to grasp what living with a life-threatening allergy means to you.

And it is through experience that I’m happy to say we have grown up, big time, since Lucas’ 2004 diagnosis.

We, being the allergic community – which six years ago was disparate and anything but a community – the food manufacturing industry, medical research, government, the non-allergic world and, alongside, our own little allergic family.

In the early days, I was anything but OK with another child in our company eating something Lucas couldn’t have on account of cross-contamination. It was beyond heartbreaking for me to see my child miss out on something as important as dessert.

Why should it be in his face? Can’t the other kid live without ice cream this once? Is it such a huge sacrifice for other people to refrain from non-nut-free treats for an hour, so Lucas doesn’t have to feel deprived or reminded that he’s different? How’s he supposed to understand why he can’t have it too?

These projected concerns and restrictions on the people around us made up at least half of my allergy stress in the early years.

But my good friends were great about it. Most of Lucas’ friends’ parents were, too. And I’m not talking about refraining from eating nuts in front of him, which remains a given.

This was about the ice cream truck or the chocolate cake at the restaurant – the “may contain” stuff that he couldn’t eat – but would not likely cause a physical threat to him if someone else was. The stuff that today Lucas still can’t eat, but as a more mature allergic parent I take (as does he) little issue with.

Our allergic journey is anything but predictable. But until last week, I was relatively confident with my system for allergy management, and the second nature of my vigilance. As it goes, every person who looks after Lucas gets my thorough EpiPen tutorial and a line-by-line explanation of his Allergy Action Plan, which covers all the bases, including the difference between an anaphylactic reaction and an asthmatic one.

In addition to allergies to peanuts, tree nuts, egg and a host of other foods, animals and enviro elements, Lucas is asthmatic. But we don’t carry his puffers unless we’re traveling or going somewhere with animals, which we tend to avoid or really prepare for since he’s so severely allergic to dogs, cats and pretty much all our furry friends.

I also like to keep things simple for others. “When in doubt, give the EpiPen,” is a lot easier to digest than, “if his breathing sounds like this and if you think he ate something, give him this, but if it sounds like that without food, give him this .…”

The EpiPen treats both forms of respiratory distress. The puffer only treats the asthma. So it always seemed better to just send the Epi and keep the need for judgment calls to a minimum.

But here’s the story. Last week, the day after I trained Lucas’s new friend’s mom, we bumped into his family at the park. They were there with their Grandma and her dog. Until this moment, it never occurred to me to ask if someone has a friend or family member with an animal who visits. Turns out Grandma’s little Fifi is shedding fur and dander every day at a house where I was intending to drop off Lucas, sans puffers, Reactine, trial or warning.

The realization that my emergency preparedness was flawed was exacerbated by an incident two days later at another of his friends’ homes. The family had just moved and we were all over at their new digs for a swim and play. When the rain came, the kids adjourned to the basement for some air hockey and Wii time.

Next thing we know, Lucas emerges crying and wheezing, eyes blood shot and swollen, face pale, voice nearly inaudible as he complained about his breathing. To anyone else in the room, he’d appear to be having an anaphylactic reaction.

But it was immediately clear to me that he was having an asthma attack. We whisked him out the door and home within six minutes. Two puffs of his inhaler later we saw some immediate relief, though he reported he was at about a “6” within the hour (10 being normal breathing, as per our ranking system).

The Shedding Machine
Since I knew Lucas’s friend didn’t have any pets, I asked the mom whether the previous owners did – a question I would never have thought to ask before, but the best one I’d asked all day. “They did!” she said with a eureka exclamation.

But this wasn’t just a pet. It was one big, allergenic German shepherd who slept in the rec room shedding fur and dander by the pound for many long, doggy years. The basement, where Lucas’s troubles began, is the only carpeted place in the house and they hadn’t had it steam cleaned, at least not yet.

By bedtime and after two more puffs of his inhaler, Lucas had reached an 8 and my guilt had set in like steel-toed boot to the face.

I don’t send his puffers on playdates, yet never thought to ask about other people’s animals in the house. I was (and still am) sick about it, but it’s a good reminder (and thank God we were there). Honey agreed – “It is a good reminder.”

“A good reminder of what?” I asked, curious about which part he was referring to. “Of the fact that he has asthma, too.”

It’s true. We do tend undervalue the asthma in light of the life-threatening food allergies. But I’m also reminded that no matter how much forethought and vigilance we put into Lucas’s safety and no matter how long we’ve been at it, this journey continues to be one of trial and error, learning, evolving, experience. Even if there’s calm, it’s never static.

His Other Hazards
What’s more, we’re reminded that our kid is seriously allergic to animals. And like peanuts et al, they should be regarded and identified as a highly threatening hazard to his health and safety.

My action plan rushes through this part in an effort to keep the focus on anaphylaxis, but the truth is, animal sheddings are likely lurking in just as many – perhaps even more – places as nut remnants. And as I’ve now learned, a pet-less house can pose a threat if the right questions aren’t asked and proper precautions aren’t taken.

So now – as all things happen in threes –  I’m faced with the third installment of last week’s pet dilemma. Another friend of Lucas, whose house he’s never been to on account of his two cats, has chosen to forego a birthday party to have two of his favourite friends over for a movie and sleepover.

Lucas is honoured and excited to be chosen as one of them, but I’m left feeling triple-stressed about the whole prospect, despite assurances that the house will be cleaned and the cats kept in the basement. I suggested to the mom – who is more than eager to accommodate in any way possible – that we come over a few times to test the waters before committing, but even that feels wrong now.

We wouldn’t take a try-it-and-see approach with a ‘may contain peanuts’ warning on a food label, so does it make sense to take a chance on a house of cats?

On the other hand, with the proper safeguards, I definitely do drop Lucas off at houses with peanut butter in them.

I’m flummoxed by this one.

1. What would you do?
2. Are there any other precautions I should be taking or questions I should be asking to avoid another  unnecessary threat to my son’s safety?
3. Is sending puffers with strict instruction on when to use what, responsible or confusing and hazardous?
4. Does your child’s asthma take a secondary role to his/her food allergies?

Last year, out of nowhere, Lucas started to complain about wearing his EpiPen to school. Until that point he’d been pretty cooperative about it, choosing instead to grumble about bedtime, mealtime, Wii time, his little brother, the fact that our living room is not a basketball court and everything in between.

“This too shall pass,” I was hoping, though just beneath the surface I was fretting, suspecting that my second biggest fear as an allergic parent was starting to unfold in front of my eyes. Until now, I was always so proud, and comforted, by how well Lucas handled his identity as an allergic kid, how seldom it was that he’d take issue with all the special vigilance involved in his care.

I suggested different ways to wear his EpiPen belt, and even bought him a new type of carrier for a little bribery action. Quickly, his complaints escalated to full-blown crying jags before school, refusals to get dressed in the morning and ultimately a refusal to wear his EpiPen altogether.

“Why do I have to wear it?” he’d cry, whine, yell. “I’m the only one. I hate it. I hate having allergies…”

“Lucas you know you have to wear it. You’re not the only one. It’s there for an emergency. Just like your seatbelt. It’s a safety issue. It’s the school’s policy,” I’d say in various combinations, trying to keep my calm and remain consistent like a good mother.

My heart was breaking all over the place: I wished he didn’t have to wear it either. I wished more than anything that we didn’t have to worry about life-threatening peanut, tree nut and egg allergies. I wished I could make it all go away, but I couldn’t – and can’t. I had to stay strong and unwavering for him, for me, for all of us. My approach, however, was anything but working.

This is when I ended up at Beverley’s house. Beverley is Beverley Cathcart-Ross, a well-known educator and counselor, and the woman I now call my parenting coach. It is with her sage advice and keen understanding of the inner mechanics of my little boy, whom she has still never met, that Lucas and I were able to get past our first “why me?” moment in our allergic journey.

What’s more amazing is that it happened in a flash – the result of one very potent line Beverley gave me to say: “If I had a magic wand, I’d make it all go away.” It’s true, it’s sympathetic, it’s non-negotiable, it has the added value of some fantastical imagery. And it did the trick. He not only wears his EpiPen again without complaint, he’s the first to remember it when, on the rarest occasion, others forget.

He knows why he has to wear his auto-injector.
He’s been told from the beginning. What he needed
to know is that his feelings about it are being heard.

What Beverley pointed out was that my previous and repeated response was nothing but “waa waa waa” to Lucas (remember the adult voices in The Peanuts cartoon?). He knows why he has to wear his auto-injector. He’s been told from the beginning of time. What he needed to know is that his feelings about it are OK and being heard. He knows that now, thanks to that perfect little line, which by the way, works wonders in many moments of adversity with both my boys. That and: “I love you too much to fight with you.”

Another thing Beverley reinforced is that I’m raising my children to be adults. As such, it’s important to think about, and even commit to paper, my long-range goals for them. Some of mine, which are common to most parents are: independence, self-reliance, responsibility, conflict resolution and self-respect.

According to Beverley, once you’ve figured out what life skills you want you kids to possess by the time they’re, say, 18, you must continuously ask yourself whether your actions, decisions, whatever, are working toward or against them.

When Lucas was about 3, I had him enrolled two afternoons a week in this cute little neighbourhood program. On account of his allergies, the kind people in charge declared the space peanut- and nut-free, directly informing each parent (or nanny) to send only nut-free snacks for their little ones.

Not such a remarkable scenario today, but four years ago this type of directive was new to some.

So, there I was on the third day getting ready to exit when this mom came in with her tot, to whom Lucas had taken a shine. She’d looked up at the NO NUTS sign on the wall and, obviously unaware that I was the cause, made some remark about how ridiculous that was. Her son loved nuts and shouldn’t be told what he can or can’t eat. Without taking a breath, she went on to say that he is also lactose intolerant and that she has a mind to ask the program director to ban dairy products.

“So ridiculous,” she kept repeating. When her rant seemed to be coming to a close, I softly responded with feigned ignorance. “Could it hurt your son if someone else was eating dairy products in his presence?”

“No,” she said, “but he’s effectively allergic to it .… Anyway, I would never make it anyone else’s problem.”

A Name and Face to Allergy

“Ya, I wouldn’t either,” I say. “In fact, my son is allergic to egg, shellfish, mustard, kiwi and poppy seed, and I would never expect other parents not to send their kids with those ingredients. I mean, he’s only affected by those allergens if he eats them, so why make it other people’s problem, right?”

“Absolutely!” We’re like instant BFFs, united by our agreement over what’s right and good vis-à-vis those “ridiculous,” over-advocating, nut-allergic parents.

“But here’s the thing,” I said. “He’s also allergic to peanuts and tree nuts. These allergies are life-threatening and can be triggered by trace contact with his allergens. So it actually really matters what other people are eating, especially in his presence, which is why I ask for other parents’ courtesy on the peanut and tree nut matter, and why I don’t dwell on the other stuff.”

“Riiiight,” she says, while our two boys are playing dinosaurs on the carpet across the room. “I didn’t realize it was Lucas.”

Somehow putting a name and face to the meaning of the sign, and hearing my story while her daggers were down, transformed this naysayer pretty quickly. It also made her realize that different allergies (and in her case, intolerances) mean different things to different people.

Through past responses to this column, through the Toronto allergy group I run, and most recently from online feedback to an explosive allergy-denial article published in Chatelaine, I’ve come across a lot of dissenting views: non-allergic parents feeling put out and off by the needs of a few allergic kids, others who simply don’t understand or believe the severity of anaphylaxis, and many who’d like to dismiss we parents of allergic kids as hysterical freaks. But the most disturbing sentiment comes from the divide within our own allergic community.

Community Divide

Some parents whose children face other serious allergies aside from peanuts or nuts – like milk or egg – seem to be sour grapes about the strides made in accommodating peanut and nut allergies over the past five years.

Indeed, school anaphylaxis measures are not all about “the peanut”. This is why Ontario’s ground-breakingSabrina’s Law, for example, doesn’t call for school-wide bans but rather requires that principals develop school-specific strategies to reduce the risk of exposure to anaphylactic triggers (whatever they may be), communication of such strategies with the school community and staff training for allergy emergencies.

My younger son Judah was severely allergic to dairy until he was 2 years old and Lucas has a laundry list of allergies. So I get it. But what I also get is the strength of our allergic community when united – as illustrated by the numerous petitions that led to Sabrina’s Law or the lobbying begun on the Allergic Living forum that ultimately led to the education minister’s anaphylaxis directive in British Columbia or more recent local demonstrations such as the Walk to Axe Anaphylaxis and the hundreds of effective responses to Chatelaine’snegative article. The changes we’re able to bring about hinge on us working together as a food allergy community, toward the same goals. It isn’t about being for or against accommodations for one allergy or another, it’s about making school life safe and rewarding and normal – for all our allergic kids.

We can’t make our kids’ worlds allergen-free – in most cases it’s not optimal to institute large-scale bans of peanuts, milk or anything else – but it is possible to inspire policies and attitudes of tolerance, sensitivity and vigilance. If your anaphylactic child has a food allergy that isn’t being accommodated in his or her specific classroom, in several provinces and states you can make the case that this must be addressed. You now have a legal or at least government framework to draw upon in discussions with your principal or school board.

Let’s face it: we all want to rip the eyeballs out of anyone who threatens to put our children in harm’s way, and it can be hard to keep your calm when you feel somebody’s child’s needs are being given more respect than yours. But the most positive changes are made when we use tolerance, sensitivity and vigilance ourselves. A diplomatic approach to education and awareness is our honey. Everything else is for the bees.

Allergy in the News: Air Canada Ordered to Offer Nut-free Zones.

So, it’s Grade 2, not Grade 1, not kindergarten – just a not-so remarkable year in Lucas’ continuing grade-school education and our family’s life-long allergic journey, which regardless of the grade seldom goes without drama and extra-special attention.

Last year, when Lucas was entering Grade 1, there was more hype than The Who’s first “final” concert tour. Figuring out how to deal with recess for the first time, having Lucas move among several classrooms instead of just one for the first time, staying a full day for the first time and later even for lunch, these were all conversation pieces for the copious meetings I was afforded with the entire school workforce. New systems had to be devised, anaphylaxis action plans revised, staff members advised. Everyone was on high alert and eager to meet our special needs.

While Lucas wasn’t the first peanut- and nut-allergic student to graduate to Grade 1 or to enter this school back in kindergarten, it seemed I was the first and only parent to command such vigilance and attention to detail. This included: the placement of every EpiPen so that Lucas would always have two within reach, the protocol for supply teachers, the plan for field trips, the personalized letter to parents, the training of each employee and the widely distributed allergy action plan, customized to the T.

So what’s extraordinary about this school year is actually the lack of drama and extra-special attention – there’s a kind of been-there-done-that attitude that even I find myself experiencing (did I just say that out loud?).

Maybe this relative calm is a milestone in its own right. The truth is there’s nothing much new this year, except a bunch of new classmates and a new teacher. I still got to have my requisite pre-school meeting with the principal and key staff to train on Lucas’ allergy management. But this year there was no hysteria, less fear of the unknown and more familiarity with all the players and processes.

And even more amazing, it seems, the attention has been diverted to the new allergic entrants – allergic families who are commanding a piece of my special-status pie. And I couldn’t be happier. Well, not happy that these young families are saddled with the burden I know too well, but definitely relieved, comforted and thrilled to have the company.

I know of at least two anaphylactic newbies in the school and at least one of their parents – who I’m already in close contact with – is an advocate like me, maybe even more neurotic (did I just say that out loud?).

In addition to all the painful emotions I’ve experienced as an allergic parent and one-woman allergy committee, was the stark feeling of being relentlessly alone in my plight. But now for the first time since Lucas began school, I have the promise of partners – post-Sabrina’s Law parents who understand their rights and are looking to do whatever it takes to create a safe environment for their anaphylactic kids.

I consider myself among the first of this generation of allergic parents, parents who aren’t afraid to speak up and out. Before Sabrina’s Law, back when public schools in Ontario were not legally required to train their staff on auto-injector use and to work closely with allergic parents to create customized allergy management programs for their anaphylactic kids – parents were equally concerned and anxious about their children’s life-threatening allergies. But they were simply not inclined to demand special consideration from the school or the parent body. I’m told from my elders that they felt they had to tread lightly, that everyone thought they were over-protective, exaggerating, even obnoxious.

Parents of food allergic kids had no respect or claim to the special needs category, at least no more than the next parent who tried to pass a no-sugar-in-the-lunch-bag policy for fear of hyperactivity and childhood obesity. Lumped in the same category as new age mothers and fathers, pre-Sabrina’s Law parents felt they had little recourse but to suck it up and pray for the best.

When Lucas entered JK three years ago, Sabrina’s Law had just been enacted and there was no question that I would capitalize on my rights to work with the school to come up with a fully integrated allergy management plan for him, while ensuring the staff was properly trained.

But over these past few trailblazing years, I have stood alone at my small community school. Again, not because there were no other allergic kids, but because there were no other allergic parents stepping up for the cause. I envied members of my allergy education group who would talk about the solidarity among the allergic parents at their schools. I loved and yearned for the positive energy and change they were able to affect as a unified front. Little things like handing out Chapman’s popsicles at the end of the year on what they designated Allergy Appreciation Day – an opportunity to thank everyone for their efforts to keep their allergic kids safe. Somehow, doing something like that on my own didn’t have the same appeal. And frankly, with all the policies and procedures I’ve helped create, all the work it takes to keep my school nut-aware year after year, all the solo efforts .… I’m exhausted.

So, I’m sorry to say it, but bring on the new allergic kids and their advocating parents. Bring on my team. It’s about time.

A few years back, we found ourselves between allergists. Our first one died a year after Lucas was diagnosed with peanut, tree nut and egg, and the second one was, well – to put it mildly – not a good fit.

After pulling a few strings, Lucas, Honey and I headed off to meet allergist No. 3 – a very reputable doctor, renowned for his allergy research.

I was feeling confident and partly excited as we waited the requisite 45 minutes in the hallway along with dozens of other allergics of all ages and stages. The wait continued for what seemed like another hour inside the good doctor’s office, a warmish atmosphere, with some kiddie toys on the floor and family photos adorning his desk.

When he finally arrived, the greeting was a bit curt, but I quickly launched into our story, which he seemed keenly interested in for about 40 seconds before the nurse came knocking. “Just a minute,” he interrupted, and left us again waiting in the room.

Ages later he returned and instructed me to resume, but this time he was totally distracted, his eyes affixed to the door. It wasn’t another minute until he excused himself again. After yet another in and out, a nurse finally ushered us back out to the corridor for some more quality waiting time, no explanation.

It wasn’t until the code blue sounded minutes later, and we witnessed what appeared to be every doctor, nurse and orderly in the hospital running down the hall into the room next to the doctor’s office, that we realized there was a real emergency.

At some point during the pandemonium, we and the rest of the allergics were moved to a waiting room around the corner, given few details despite a whirlwind of questions from the anxious lot of us.

Turns out, one of the patients we’d been sitting near in the hallway earlier was there for an oral allergy challenge. She was in her 20s, and I have no idea what she was being challenged with, but whatever it was, was bad, life-threateningly – maybe even terminally – bad.

To this day, I don’t know if she came out alive. I called the hospital the next day and the day after that to find out what happened, but of course nobody was authorized to divulge that information to me.

It was a scarring moment. One I will always remember and be reminded of when I hear the words “oral challenge.”