A Night in the ER: Cold or Allergies?

For the past few days, I had a premonition that the sore throat that I had would escalate into something more problematic. I take Zyrtec regularly to stave off allergic reactions to the dogs that my mother has, and until recently it worked without a hitch. About a week ago, though, I had to cease popping it due to strange chest pains I had. I switched to Alavert on the advice of my immunotherapy nurse, and didn't have any problems. Then, last night, I had troublesome asthmatic symptoms when I breathed, and I couldn't simply ignore them.

Earlier that night, I had similar symptoms and acquiesced to an ER visit. I don't like emergency rooms, and have always thought of them, unfairly, as repositories where inexperienced interns cut their teeth. Maybe I've seen "ER" too much, but I envision neophyte doctors, like Noah Wyle's Dr. Carter, dispensing expeditious remedies to problems that can't be treated simply with aspirin and bedrest. I didn't immediately pinpoint my absurdly simple treatment because it made sense. Okay, so I had an allergic reaction, and the treatment for that is, I think, Benadryl and epinephrine. Simple, no?

Quick digression: when the doctor told me that I'd get a shot of adrenaline, I immediately thought of Pulp Fiction. In one particularly "trippy" scene, Uma Thurman's Mia Wallace ODs on heroin and requires an adrenaline shot to her heart to revive her. When I heard that I'd need one, I expected a similarly huge needle and a stabbing motion that would allow it to penetrate my breastplate.

Thankfully, this didn't happen. I received two quick subcutaneous shots in my left tricep, and eventually went on my merry way. I hoped that the ordeal was over, but, alas, it was not.

A few hours passed with nary a hitch. After a while, though, the wheezing returned. I tried to ignore it, as I had the night before, but several hours passed before I admitted this was futile. I don't like emergency rooms because I consider them quick resorts for panicky mothers, old people, and/or drug addicts. No matter how much I loathed the idea, I was headed back there. First, I roused my mother awake and told her the unavoidable truth. Then, I tried to alleviate my symptoms by leaving the house and going outside to the back porch. Admittedly, this was a bad idea since it was cold outside and the bench was covered in snow, but I went nevertheless. I had no other options, so I bided my time and waited for a stronger reaction from my exhausted mother.

This came quickly, and I didn't even try to rationalize my rash behavior. I piled into the car, again, and returned to the ER. Again. This was late, so there was no wait, and minimal other patients to wait behind, so I received my own "room." Previously, I sat on a bed parked in the main hallway. Now, though, I had my own partition!

My breathing had worsened in the interim, and the doctor now there heard this. He gave me a breathing treatment that consisted of a medicinal vapor that helped to clear my airway and steroids, which is also a normal treatment for an MS attack but also helps stifle an allergic pathological reaction. My wheezing abated, but I insisted on going to my grandmother's, which must have been a painstaking but unavoidable annoyance for my mother, who drove me.

Eventually, I fell asleep (around 5 am). Now, though, away from contact with "hypoallergenic" dogs (this is a bit of a misnomer, because it really doesn't exist. There are dogs that don't shed, but you can, and I am, still be allergic to errant dander or contact with their saliva.), I began to consider other possible reasons for my symptoms. The most obvious, of course, is the common cold intermingled with the cold air.

I heard this possible diagnosis before, and disregarded it. It has been several years (I think) since I've had a possible cold, so I don't really know the telltale symptoms. Of course, I've had numerous ones in the past, but the absence of them for the last year or two has totally made me forget what they're like.

I'm pretty sure they're like this though, because I've been away from animals long enough to render them irrelevant. My wheezing remains, and I still reach for the inhaler like a true spaz. Once again, my cane comes in handy because it nullifies such dismissive judgments. I just look like a piqued, enervated shell.

I'm fine with that. I'd rather be seen as an old man than as someone for whom a coma would be a cozy respite. At least, that's how I feel about certain nyerds. Is this wrong?

Probably, but I don't give a shit. Where's my inhaler, anyway?

R