June 8th, 2016 - Drew Downs

We parked the car on the third floor of the garage next to Riley Children's Health in Indianapolis. I grabbed a backpack from the trunk and caught up to Rose and our kids as they made their way to the elevator and down to the hospital's side entrance. Sophia hugged Puppy tight around the neck (they took him with us everywhere in those days), his body starting to become as floppy as his long brown ears. This was our second trip to Riley in as many years, and we'd return two years later for Isaiah, but that's another story. This was an excited trip, a literal final challenge.

It was six years after we discovered Sophia's peanut allergy the hard way with Sunday morning peanut butter and a trip to the ER. They went into anaphylaxis while I was at church and Rose had to deal with it alone. I followed up with the allergist at her office the next week. They brought us into the exam room and asked me to remove my two year-old's shirt so the technician could poke their back in dozens of places multiple times with a plastic torture device. It looked less medical and more like one of those plastic frames that holds pieces in place when you first open Monopoly or The Game of Life. Each plastic tip was designed to trigger different allergens. The frame itself held four rows of multiple pokers, so they could test dozens of them at a time.

I held my daughter as the technician stuck their back and they cried out, their soft infant skin grew a few faint blisters of red as they repeated the process three times. They tested so many things, including our bravery and the number of tears we both could shed. My heart ached with Sophia's pain, their confusion, like I was betraying them.

"She has a mild allergy to cats and dogs, ragweed. Not enough to worry about, but enough to be annoying," the allergist said. "She does have a significant allergy to peanuts and to sesame. A lot of people who have one are allergic to the other."

I went home and threw the peanut butter in the trash and took it to the curb.

Between ages two and eight, we'd have more trips to the emergency room. Once when Sophia was four and a friend gave them Halloween candy she’d been hiding in her room and then barely a year later when we were visiting family in North Carolina (we were eating cake — there must have been cross-contamination because we were so careful). Sophia's airway started to close and time pulsed in freeze frames, everyone was frozen in place and then the EpiPen was in my hand and I popped the top and prayed to God like I never had, praying they'd forgive me, and I thrust the needle into their thigh through blue jeans until I heard the click and the wail and time started to rush back in and Rose stole Sophia up in her arms. I drove us to the hospital, both savior and betrayer.

This day, June 8th was the day this would end. The fear and disappointment.

We strode into the hospital like we owned the place. Past the fools who don't know where to go. That was so 2015 us. We took the escalator down to the main concourse, past the gift shop and the cafe, to line up at the check-in counter. That day, the labyrinth wouldn't intimidate us. All the turns and long hallways with photos of distinguished donors and wild animals, birds, and the pretty insects, like ladybugs, it all would be adorable and welcome.

We waited in the same exam room as the year before with the blue institutional lighting, the exam bed, the black-sided clock on the wall, ticking time impatiently. Sophia held Puppy and Rose held them both as the happy news came in:

"You are officially peanut allergy free!"

I was smiling and Rose was smiling and I looked for a smile on Sophia's face to mirror the relief I felt, but it wasn't there.

"You can have peanut butter now without worry," the allergist assured them.

"But I don't like it. I don't want it."

The room got quiet as the allergist tried to find the words for a child who seemed so disappointed with good news.

Sophia held Puppy close, their eyes drooped like the corners of their mouth.

When the allergist left, Sophia finally told us how the preparation felt. All those weeks of bravery, of forcing themselves to eat peanut butter, it didn't feel like accomplishment or victory to them. It was just something we made them do. They felt safer without it.

And yet, all the bravery to come felt more possible for us. As if we could finally breathe again.

***

Sophia is graduating in a few days, and family is coming to town. We are preparing for guests and cleaning the house and planning a party and packing for summer camp and trying not to think about the fall — about college out of state, visits home, and then, the inevitable adulthood. I don't want to think about hugging them and having to let go. But I don't have that choice.

I have seen their bravery at nine as they strode across the stage with a travel amp and cherry red electric guitar to sing "Good Riddance" by Green Day, then the tennis tryouts, theater auditions, the starring roles. It takes everything I have to keep up with them now and I am so grateful for all of it.

Collecting laundry, I walk into their room. The record player sits on the dresser with Fleetwood Mac's Rumors ready to spin and clothes are everywhere on the floor. On the bed, loyal Puppy still gets his spot next to the pillow they share; waiting, like I am, for our kids to come home from school.

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Drew Downs writes essays about faith, hope, and the human condition. His essays have appeared in Our Human Family and most recently in the anthology, Fieldnotes on Fortitude: Resilience in Resistance. He is completing an MFA in Creative Writing from Alma College and is an Episcopal priest, currently living in central Indiana near the Wabash River.