The Bite 006: Thanks for Nothing

Ah, the allergist. The one person on Earth who should get it. Spoiler: she did not, in fact, get it. Not even close.

I had waited days for this appointment since I met her — the one everyone said would finally make sense of the madness. People said she was the expert. The ER folks made her sound like she’d walk in wearing a cape, EpiPen holstered at the hip, tossing vegan snacks and clear answers like some kind of immune system savior, food-allergy oracle, the Alpha-Gal whisperer. Shit, she sounded so good that she could descend from a cloud of hypoallergenic essential oils with answers. I showed up hopeful. Emotionally duct-taped together, raw, overwhelmed, still recovering… but hopeful.

Then I walked into the waiting room. Let me set the scene.

Check-in wasn’t at a desk. Nope. No clipboard. No friendly “Hi, what brings you in today?” Instead, there was a literal Zoom call in the middle of the room — a giant monitor with a woman asking me to yell out my full name, date of birth, insurance ID, and yes, my entire medical trauma, like I was on Wheel of Fortune: Medical Mystery Edition. Because nothing says HIPAA compliance like shouting “Anaphylaxis! SIX TIMES!” across from a guy playing Candy Crush at full volume.

Meanwhile, a mom on the other side of the room was having a full-on FaceTime town hall. First her sister, then her coworker, then a heated debate about her paycheck and the price of lunchables. Her four-year-old? Double-fisting Dum Dums like it was an Olympic event. I counted eight wrappers under her seat before I lost track. The licking, the slurping… the stickiness. My husband tapped out and went to wait outside. “Text me when this nightmare’s over,” he said. I saluted him silently.

And then, the allergist herself.

To sum it up? A trainwreck. She suggested my Alpha-Gal symptoms might be stress-related. Like, oh — maybe if I just took a few deep breaths and meditated more, I wouldn’t be going into shock. That’s a comforting take, especially for someone who’s already been admitted to the ER in the last week with a throat that decided passing air through it was optional.

Then came her big advice: try a little bacon. “Just a bite or two,” she said. “See how your body reacts. Keep your EpiPen nearby.” She even re-taught my husband how to use it — not that we needed the refresher after it being stabbed into my leg six times last Wednesday.

But the real kicker? She didn’t even remember me. I’m not joking. The same doctor who said she wanted to follow up “immediately” after I was hospitalized couldn’t place me. No memory of the ER. No mention of the IVs or the part where my oxygen dropped and I turned blue. Just: “Hi, nice to meet you!” Lady, I was patient zero. You literally asked for my charts. No acknowledgement that she’d seen me laid out in a hospital bed like a science fair project gone wrong.

I sat there frozen. Nodding politely like a deranged bobblehead while mentally preparing to rage-order another $400 worth of vegan cookbooks I probably won’t use. It felt like showing up to a five-alarm fire with a damp paper towel and being told to “try staying calm.” Like if I could manifest my own cure, I wouldn’t be trying it already?

So, here’s the deal: This is why people scream into their car steering wheels after appointments. This is why we don’t trust the system. And this is why I started a blog — because somewhere, someone else just got diagnosed, and they’re wondering if they’re crazy too.

You are not. Your body is not lying. Your symptoms are not “too weird.” And you deserve better than being handed pork and a prayer.

So no, Susan, I will not be “reintroducing bacon to see what happens.” I’ve seen what happens. It’s called the emergency room — and spoiler: I’m not interested in the sequel.

Thanks for nothing.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick