Personal Memoir When We Were Small, My

Personal Memoir When we were small, my brother and I were sick all the time. Fortunately, it was nothing so serious that we were hospitalized, nor did our family have to significantly alter its lifestyle. Still, it seemed that we were constantly congested, with wheezy coughing fits and runny noses. Our mother was not a person who panicked.

She did not rush us to the doctor, even if one or both of us had such severe nasal congestion that we complained "I can't eben breathe outta by dose." We had elaborate bedtime rituals of Vick's vapor rub being massaged into our chests. Our mother boiled pots of water and we took turns breathing the steam, tented under big bath towels. Our mother believed that diet played a crucial role in good health.

My brother, two years younger than me, wasn't in school when I was in first grade and had to take a lunch box every day. If he had been in school with me, at least I would not have been the only one in the cafeteria with an alfalfa sprout sandwich on nine-grain bread. I watched with envy while other kids unwrapped Twinkies and Little Debbies and all sorts of other wonderful treats our mother said were not good for me and would not help me get well.

I ate an apple a day and perhaps it did keep the doctor away, but I still felt crummy most of the time. I was sure that, in some way, a Twinkie would actually help me to feel better. During the winter of that first grade year, my brother and I developed raging ear aches. We had to go to the doctor for that. We were prescribed a drug derived from penicillin. It cured the ear ache, but almost killed me.

I am told, for I don't clearly remember, that I broke out in huge hives all over my body. I must have been quite sick because I do remember the expression on the doctor's face when my mother rushed me back to her office. I stayed home from school for a while. I remember that my fingers were so swollen for a time that I could not even hold a crayon.

When I recovered, and our parents could once again think calmly and clearly after that frightening experience, it occurred to them that, with the allergic reaction to penicillin, there might be other allergies, too, that were making my brother and me sick all the time. We went to the pediatrician, who referred us to an allergy specialist. Allergy scratch tests are quite horrible when one is only seven years old. The doctor made a series of pricks in my arms and introduced various allergens. Where bumps developed, allergy was indicated.

My brother, a real trooper at age five, had a few bumps, indicating he was allergic to dust and feathers. My parents bought a new vacuum cleaner and replaced down pillows with foam-filled ones. He was also allergic to wheat, which was a greater problem, although not so much for my mother, who relished the challenge of preparing wheat-free foods at a time when there weren't many gluten-free products available at regular supermarkets. The problem was solved. Not so for me.

My arms looked like a stretch of bad road, with a series of bumps and blotches. I was allergic to milk, which is also in butter, cheese and ice cream, and corn, which is in almost everything else. I was also allergic to a long list of environmental elements: dust and feathers, as was my brother, but also grass and tree pollen. Because the fates are cruel, I was also allergic to chocolate.

The good news was that, with changes to our diet, my brother and I started feeling much better, with fewer runny noses and bouts of coughing. The bad news, other than the fact that I was stilled allowed alfalfa sandwiches, was that I had to go for regular allergy shots. I had to go every Saturday. Sometimes I would get two shots in my upper arm and other times I would get two shots in each upper arm.

Sometimes there would be a slight allergic reaction (which I didn't understand, since the shots were supposed to help my allergies) and the skin at the injection site would get puffy and hot. If a playmate grabbed me by the upper arm or if someone accidentally bumped me in the hall at school, it was painful enough to bring tears to my eyes. By the time I was thirteen, I was really beginning to rebel against the weekly shots. "I feel better!" I insisted.

My mother gave in and let me skip a few weeks, but the whistling breath through my stuffy nose eventually convinced her to reinstate the Saturday ritual. When she took a job in a real estate office and had to work on Saturday mornings, I was ecstatic with the thought that there would be no more shots.

What was a little whistle-breathing, anyway? I could put up with it if it meant there were no more shots! I hadn't counted on the fact that my grandfather, who lived nearby, was more than willing to take my brother and me every Saturday. At eleven years old, my brother was delighted to be in my grandfather's company.