I had long anticipated this moment, ever since our son, Leo, was diagnosed with a peanut allergy at just six months old. Now, at three years old, my anxiety was about to reach a terrifying peak—I nearly harmed my child.
It was a Monday evening after work, and I found myself at Whole Foods, specifically in the gluten-free cookie section. With a trip planned for that Friday and my mom coming to babysit, I was completely worn out. I picked up a box of vanilla gluten-free cookies, checked the ingredients, and felt relieved to see “gluten-free” and “soy-free” prominently displayed. The cookies contained cream, something Leo hadn’t tried yet, and I thought it would be a delightful surprise for his grandmother to offer him. As I turned to leave, I noticed a chocolate version, too. I tossed it into the cart without checking the ingredients.
Fast forward to 8 p.m. two days later. Leo’s younger sister, Ava, was already in bed when Leo spotted the cookies in the pantry. When he asked for one, I agreed. They came in two packs, and he insisted on having both. Ava took a tiny nibble but didn’t want it, so Leo eagerly grabbed the extra cookie, thrilled about the cream filling. I quickly took Ava to bed, missing Leo’s remark to his dad about the “spicy” cream.
Forty minutes later, Leo was in our bed watching cartoons when he came upstairs, scratching and saying he felt itchy. A single glance at the back of his knee made my heart drop; it looked as if he had been bitten by fire ants. “Think, Andy! What’s new? What did we just give him?” I gasped, and then it hit me: the cookies!
I dashed to the pantry, grabbed the box, and scanned the ingredient list. To my horror, hazelnuts were the tenth ingredient. I had never even seen this list.
We quickly administered Benadryl and slathered his hives with Benadryl cream. He must have touched his knee after the cookies. We rushed him into the shower to rinse off any traces. Wrapped in a towel on my lap, I kept apologizing, telling him that Mommy fed him a bad cookie by accident. “I’m so sorry, Leo. It won’t happen again.”
He broke my heart when he replied, “Mommy, I think I’m going to be OK with that cookie.” His bloodshot eyes prompted me to put antihistamine drops in them. I asked if he could breathe, and he nodded. “Show me your tongue,” I said, and it looked fine. As dinner awaited me downstairs, Andy stayed with Leo while he continued watching cartoons.
Suddenly, I heard Leo start to cough. My heart raced. “ANDY!” I yelled. “He’s coughing!”
“I know!” he shouted back.
I rushed upstairs to find them in the dark. I flipped on the lights, and my heart sank. Leo’s eyes were swelling; he was still coughing. “We have to call 911,” I insisted. “Let’s get the EpiPen and call.”
Backstory: We had received an EpiPen prescription for Leo in 2011 but initially weren’t given it despite his severe allergies. After much back and forth with the doctor’s office, we finally secured it and have been renewing it every year since.
Andy held Leo, who was naked under a towel, and we hurried downstairs. I found the EpiPen and grabbed Andy’s phone. “Let’s put him in the car,” I suggested.
“No time for that,” Andy replied. I had no idea how to get to the hospital since we had only recently moved. I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked. My voice trembled as the reality of the situation crashed down on me. “Do I need to use an EpiPen on my child?”
She asked for our address and other details while I panicked. “YES, I NEED AN AMBULANCE! BUT DO I NEED TO USE THE EPIPEN?” I begged.
“Ma’am, calm down. You need to do what your doctor would want you to do,” she replied.
Leo’s coughing intensified. “She would want me to use the EpiPen,” I told her.
“Then you need to do that,” the operator instructed.
As I was getting clothes on Leo, three firefighters burst into our home. One listened to Leo’s lungs and noted the wheezing. “You’ve got to use the EpiPen,” he said.
Then a caring female paramedic took my hands. “Mama, you have to administer the EpiPen. You need to learn this because there will be a next time, and it may not be in a place where we can help you.”
With nine people crowded in our small living room, I was overwhelmed. Leo started gagging. I read the EpiPen instructions for what felt like the tenth time.
A firefighter held Leo’s tiny thighs while the paramedic secured his torso. “One, two, three,” I counted and pressed the EpiPen into his thigh. Nothing happened. I tried again, and again, nothing. Helpless, I looked at the woman, who handed it to another paramedic. He retracted the tip, explaining the new design.
Finally, I was on autopilot. “One. Two. Three.” I pressed it in. Leo screamed as if I had hurt him. I counted the seconds, pulling it out and then wrapping him in my arms, feeling crushed.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, feeling like the worst mother in the world.
“Mommy, I don’t want another one of those!” he pleaded. I promised him there would be no more.
When Andy came into view, Leo jumped into his arms. The paramedics asked which hospital we preferred. They noted that Leo’s cough was not as tight now. He looked like he’d been in a fight, but the swelling was subsiding.
As they prepared to take Leo in an ambulance, they handed him a teddy bear, which he hugged tightly. I stood back, crying as they drove away, feeling utterly helpless. What if this had happened while my mom was babysitting? What if he had fallen asleep before the reaction set in? The “what ifs” tormented me as I returned inside, sat on the stairs, and cried.
That night, Andy texted to say they would stay until morning. I finally fell asleep but woke up at 4 a.m., reliving the horrifying experience.
The next morning, Ava and I picked them up from the emergency room. As we drove home, Andy mentioned that Leo had seen the cookies in their hospital room and asked, “Hey Daddy, can I have those cookies?”
I got Leo out of the car, and he said, “Mommy, I want to go to the spiral slide.”
“Of course, sweetie. Anything you want! Daddy will take you.”
Then, with a serious look, he added, “Mommy, you hurt me with that EpiPen.” That pierced my heart.
Three hours later, they headed to the spiral slide, and Leo insisted on going to school. Andy didn’t consult me; I would have said no, but in hindsight, I was glad I didn’t get a vote.
That morning, I hid in my office, trying to keep my emotions in check while talking to other moms on a food allergy forum. Two of them pointed me to the Kids With Food Allergies website. One advised me to read the “After The EpiPen” section.
Listening to the universe, I registered on the site after initially hesitating.
As I read, I discovered alarming information: the allergic reaction could return once the medication wore off. I immediately called Andy to share the news.
“We need to inform the school,” he said.
I drafted an email to the school director, explaining the situation and emphasizing that this was not the norm. I detailed the signs of anaphylaxis we had witnessed the night before. I also shared updates on the EpiPen redesign, urging them to keep a close watch on Leo.
Despite my insistence, the school wouldn’t give Leo Benadryl without a doctor’s orders. I had Andy fax over the necessary orders, but the director soon called to say they were not signed. Leo was about to take a nap, and she assured me he was behaving normally but would keep an eye on him.
At 2:30 p.m., the school called to report that Leo was quite itchy. Andy rushed to pick him up.
In conclusion, I learned that parenting can be an overwhelming journey filled with unexpected challenges, especially when it comes to managing allergies. The experience was a terrifying reminder of how quickly things can go wrong and the importance of vigilance. For those on a similar path, resources like Kids With Food Allergies and Nichd are invaluable in navigating the complexities of food allergies and ensuring the safety of our children.
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