Sorry, I’m Allergic, by Phillip Hoyle

I’m
allergic to several fine particles such as house dust, essential oils, and some
burning incense. They sometimes provoke histamine reactions such as itchy eyes,
tears, sneezes, or a runny nose.
In
my late 30’s I became allergic to MSG when it is used in high proportions in
the food it seeks to enhance. I started getting hives when ingesting this food
additive. Originally the itchy red spots showed up just in the hair on my head,
then later in my ears, then on my cheeks, eventually on my neck, and finally on
my shoulders as well as all the other places. The hives tend to itch for about
20 minutes and then subside. A doctor friend gave me Benadryl when I got hives
at a meal. When the medicine went to work some twenty minutes later, I wasn’t
itching but was so sleepy I yawned until our friend left. I decided the
treatment wasn’t really effective for me. I gave up eating anything marked MSG.
In
spring and fall I tend to have congestion in my sinuses. I usually blame
pollens or other things in the air. I abide them and their attending
discomforts, usually without treatment. My relationship with allergies seems
pretty mild and way too lame to provide fodder for stories, a fact I’m actually
happy to report.
But
who wants to hear such good news except the person receiving it or their
partner who may have to suffer with them sneezing, wheezing, blowing, and
complaining? Oh I do snore and wonder if my partner will develop an allergic
reaction to this condition. He rarely complains, and for some reason I almost
never am aware of my snoring.
My
sister Holly was allergic to Tommy Shane, the boy next door. She’d get
congested and develop hives anytime he came around much the same as she would
get when eating fresh strawberries. Fortunately she eventually found a guy she
was not allergic to and they have been married for decades.
No
one in our family was allergic to work.
Sometimes
when fresh cut flowers are on display in the living room I find I have to move
to another room. I blame it on the strong aromas of some of them but suppose
more realistically my reaction is to the pollen they bring into the house, but
to say so seems as lame as telling my history professor my paper was late
because one of the children was ill. Oh well. I just don’t talk much about my
tiny allergies that seem like almost nothing compared with the skin allergies
my mother and my next younger sister endured. They seemed especially reactive
to springtime elm pollen. Mom also was allergic to some household cleaners. She
wore gloves and smeared lots of petroleum jelly on her hands at certain times
of the year.
I
feel fortunate that I am not allergic to any of the art materials I choose to
work with.
 That’s about it. Really boring…
I
can’t even think of a personal story to treat allergies as a metaphor so broad
is my acceptance of people. So you can probably conclude that if I were to make
the excuse, “Sorry, I’m allergic,” I’d probably be lying or at least
exaggerating a non-condition in order to get out of some situation I didn’t
want to cope with or some activity I just cannot abide.
© 15 Sep 2013
About
the Autho

Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

One Summer Afternoon by Lewis

When I was a child, my parents didn’t take a “family vacation” some summers. Instead, they sent me off to summer camp, which was enough vacation for them, I guess. On one such occasion, they sent me off for an interminable ten days to a YMCA camp called “Camp Wood”. I was about nine years old and an only child. I was introverted and a non-swimmer. For me, swimming was, to quote Bill Cosby, “staying alive in the water”. I had allergies and my sinuses were constantly inflamed. If chlorinated water got up my nose, it felt like someone had set my snot on fire. Therefore, if I was in water more than four feet deep, out came my nose plugs. It was swimming that kept me from getting beyond a “Star” rank in Boy Scouts.

When I got to Camp Wood, I soon discovered that it was organized a little like a country club. The lake had two beaches–the shallow one with the kiddy swings for the non-swimmers and the cool beach with the deeper water and the water slide for the swimmers. I was a few years older than almost all the kids on the kiddy beach and was going to make myself absolutely miserable unless I could graduate to the older boys’ beach. To do that meant that I would have to swim from the edge of the kiddy beach out to a floating dock about 50 yards out into the lake. From where I stood on the edge of the water at the kiddy beach, the dock looked to me to be only one or two strokes closer than hell itself. Not only that, but there would be kids and adults nearby watching me. Who knows if they were rooting for me to make it or were hoping to see something their parents would be most interested hearing about?

There was a lifeguard standing on the dock. He looked to me to be a young man of about 17. I’m not very good at judging these things, as I never had an older brother or even a male relative under 21. I suspect that it was only the prospect of that young man coming to my rescue that gave me the courage needed to attempt to swim toward the raft.

I would give anything to see a home movie of my valiant effort to look graceful while flailing all four skinny limbs in a desperate attempt to keep from consuming too much of the lake. By the time I reached the dock, I was totally exhausted, a fact that I’m sure was obvious to the young man looking worriedly down at me. Nevertheless, one got no credit for merely reaching the dock. No. One had to swim back to the shore from whence I had come.

I’m sure the lifeguard offered me his hand. But I was too embarrassed and determined to pass the test, so I turned back toward shore hoping against hope that I would find the strength somehow to make it all the way. Well, I only made it a few yards before I started to flounder. The lifeguard was on me in a couple of seconds, lifting me up and putting me under his arm to sweep me back to the safety of the dock.

“This must be what it feels like to be Sleeping Beauty”, I thought. No, not really. But it did feel pretty sweet, though humiliating.

None of the other campers ever mentioned my fiasco, nor did I ever tell my parents about it. Camp ended on a much higher note, when I placed first in the broad jump in the track meet on the last morning of camp. Somehow, solid ground just seems to suit me better.

17 June 2013

About
the Author  


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.