I can breathe again ...

Finally, after four days of being plugged up completely (but with that leaky faucet syndrome), I can breathe again.

John took me into the big city yesterday morning, and we sat in my doctor's office, waiting to be "fit in" so he could give me a steroid injection.

Eventually, I was escorted into the examining room to wait for my beloved medic to come tend to me.

And since I would have to wait again, I was hooked up to the trusty blood pressure monitor so that he would be able to see if the new meds were doing their thing.

They are.  Quite nicely too. My BP is almost back down to what used to be my norm.

And that is comforting.

When the doctor joined me in the room, he of course starts questioning me about my request for some kind of steroid injection and why do I want that, yada yada yada.

So I refreshed his memory about my allergic history (which, of course, he had forgotten since I hadn't had to bother him with symptoms for the past fifteen years).

Then it all came back to him.

But he starts in about what are my symptoms and how there is no ragweed yet, so what could I possibly be reacting to.  Do we have a dog (yes, but not in the house and I don't interact with her anyway); and how about carpets (nope, hardwood floors); and what about my mattress (brand new, at great expense because of my damned hips, I remind him); and on and on the Q&A went.

So he asks if I've tried antihistamines.  Of course I have, and as usual, they don't work for me.  To which he suggests one needs to take them for longer than a day before declaring them non-effective and I agree.  Except that with my history and having just spent six weeks on a sick bed and how long does he expect me to go around in this state before I land back on his doorstep with a request for a steroid injection to put me out of my misery because nothing else works ... .

All the while, of course, he's examining me to prove to himself that my diagnosis is correct:  Yup, I'm definitely in an allergic reaction.  But to what?

I assure him that it is to trees and grasses, but he declares that the leaves aren't out yet.  And in exasperation, I declare that the trees are budding and the grass is growing.  And that's all I need!

That's all I ever needed, does he not remember my appearing on his doorstep at this time of year, every year, in agony, looking for relief?

So he suggests that he'll send me for allergy tests.  To which I respond,  "Why?  To find out that I'm allergic to everything that grows (and all things else)?  Just like the last time we went that route?  I'm not going to take the shots anyway!"

Then he looks at me ever so quizzically and says, "Oh yes, we tried allergy shots on you didn't we?  What happened with that?"

"Well, you know how a patient should wait 20 minutes after receiving an allergy shot, to ensure that there is no reaction?  I never had a reaction in that timeframe.  My reactions were always that evening or the following morning."

And he nods his head as he remembers, "You're a delayed responder. OK, I'll give you the shot.  The only reason to send you for allergy tests is if you would be taking the shots.  No point going down that road again ..."

Then we discussed the issues around using steroid injections and the fact that it is a treatment plan of last resort (which I knew) and I commented that 30 years ago, he had expressed concern because of my age and the problems that could ensue years down the road.  Since it was now "years down the road" were those issues not of lesser concern?

"It is always a concern," he said.  "This is still a treatment of last resort and the issues remain the same.  Let's hope I only have to give you this one shot."

So, I lowered my britches and he gave me the shot, explaining that I would get six weeks' relief for sure, but he really hopes that I only need the single shot to kick-start my body's defences again, because he absolutely hates going this route.

And this morning, I can breathe again, and for that I am ever so grateful.