Well, sort of.
For those of you who read the New Yorker, there's an article in this week's magazine by the thoughtful and wise Jerome Groopman. "The Peanut Puzzle" is a calmly written alternative to the shrieking headlines offering fear, or skepticism. And wry apology.
In case anyone is wondering, the baked milk study mentioned in the article is yes, the one that the Eldest just finished. Oh - did I mention that he finished it? He did. Two tries at the 6 month version of the protocol, a possible false positive at a food challenge (turns out the ewwww, of a coated throat from full-fat dairy? not easily distinguished from an ewwww of the stomach urp, plus general ickies for a kid expecting anaphylaxis to start. Any time now. Now? Now? Maybe now?).
Then done. Then not done - hahahaha - because you have to avoid all dairy for a month, just in case the allergy comes back.
What happens if it comes back? asked the Eldest. A borough away, the mama nodded. The kid's skin tests were still positive, dammit. So, what happens?
then you'll be the first, said the allergist, and the Man says that she offered a wry smile. And you know what? For once, the kid was not unique. But he also couldn't believe it. Still, he was cool. He knew the score - go, test, schlep home, eat more stuff.
bah, said the Eldest. Done this before.
And oh, he was cool. He was sly, working his moment, enjoying Diego's fries (made in a special fry-pan! special oil! and how on earth does he make them so good? The nurse shrugged. The kid ate his sixty-first, and grinned.)
Ooo, said the Eldest. A foooooooood chALLenge. Oh, that's scary.
He tossed back a slug of chocolate milk, then another, another, and oh - a bunch more. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, he informed us. And mugged, to prove it.
That's it, said the same, wry, lovely allergist. You are done! Thank you for helping us learn about what we can do to help other children like you, with their allergies.
The kid swept a grand bow. The allergist cocked an eyebrow, appreciated the gesture, and left.
You're done, I told him. He paused.
No - really?
I nodded. He shrugged. I put a hand on his shoulder. No, really. Go ask her.
The Eldest caught up with Dr. Wry-and-Gracious by the elevators. I watched as he talked to her. She looked puzzled, but replied. He looked at her, searching her face. And then, turned and walked away.
He doesn't really believe that it's over, I explained. Watch. It's about to hit him.
Two-thirds of the way down the hall, the kid stopped. Tilted his head, then froze. Now, I told her. And we watched the kid gallop down the hall, laughing.
For those of you who read the New Yorker, there's an article in this week's magazine by the thoughtful and wise Jerome Groopman. "The Peanut Puzzle" is a calmly written alternative to the shrieking headlines offering fear, or skepticism. And wry apology.
In case anyone is wondering, the baked milk study mentioned in the article is yes, the one that the Eldest just finished. Oh - did I mention that he finished it? He did. Two tries at the 6 month version of the protocol, a possible false positive at a food challenge (turns out the ewwww, of a coated throat from full-fat dairy? not easily distinguished from an ewwww of the stomach urp, plus general ickies for a kid expecting anaphylaxis to start. Any time now. Now? Now? Maybe now?).
Then done. Then not done - hahahaha - because you have to avoid all dairy for a month, just in case the allergy comes back.
What happens if it comes back? asked the Eldest. A borough away, the mama nodded. The kid's skin tests were still positive, dammit. So, what happens?
then you'll be the first, said the allergist, and the Man says that she offered a wry smile. And you know what? For once, the kid was not unique. But he also couldn't believe it. Still, he was cool. He knew the score - go, test, schlep home, eat more stuff.
bah, said the Eldest. Done this before.
Ooo, said the Eldest. A foooooooood chALLenge. Oh, that's scary.
He tossed back a slug of chocolate milk, then another, another, and oh - a bunch more. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, he informed us. And mugged, to prove it.
That's it, said the same, wry, lovely allergist. You are done! Thank you for helping us learn about what we can do to help other children like you, with their allergies.
The kid swept a grand bow. The allergist cocked an eyebrow, appreciated the gesture, and left.
You're done, I told him. He paused.
No - really?
I nodded. He shrugged. I put a hand on his shoulder. No, really. Go ask her.
The Eldest caught up with Dr. Wry-and-Gracious by the elevators. I watched as he talked to her. She looked puzzled, but replied. He looked at her, searching her face. And then, turned and walked away.
He doesn't really believe that it's over, I explained. Watch. It's about to hit him.
Two-thirds of the way down the hall, the kid stopped. Tilted his head, then froze. Now, I told her. And we watched the kid gallop down the hall, laughing.
3 comments:
Oh my ears and whiskers! That final pic.
*iz ded*
<3
I know! And yet, after he realized, he asked me to put the camera away. Said he didn't feel like having photos just then. So the pic that really gets me is the blank spot that he asked for.
Just as he should, IMHO.
Oh, I am all choked up and wiping my eyes. Thank you & congrats & I wish I could have seen it myself.
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