Allergies and Overdramatics

The last time I was sick in bed I had the stomach flu. It was the kind of stomach flu that makes any other sort of physical suffering seem like a Swiss massage.1

This time, however, it was for quite a different reason that I lay in my bed staring out the window to the row of apartment buildings across the street. I was allergic to most things that one tends to use in everyday life. Toothpaste, shampoo, coffee, even bar soap made me break out in a painful rash and grow weak with fatigue.2

My boss seemed to think I was lying until he brought his cologne bottle to my desk and proceeded to spray it in my face to prove I wasn't allergic. I was in the hospital for a week. The threat of a lawsuit keeps him from complaining when I call in sick. I should take advantage of that more often, but I am taking a Business Ethics course at the community college and breaking one of the rules while I'm enrolled just seems hypocritical.3

I'm not quite sure what set it off this morning, but I had it bad. My head felt like someone had beaten it with a hammer and set a fire under my scalp. The rash on my arms was bigger than usual and I had to take off my shirt just to find out the normal color of my skin.4

The only thing I did that was outside of my routine was the paper. I went out just after seven to get the newspaper from the foyer. Most days I wait until after work to pick it up because I have an extra pair of plastic gloves stashed in my car. But I was anxious for this morning's paper because it had an article about the increased number of allergic reactions in the city.5

Margie, the secretary at the office said there were some people who couldn't even leave their homes without getting sick, and that the casualties were in double digits just since yesterday.6

At the time I didn't much believe her gossip. She's famous around the office for exaggerating anything that has to do with public safety. On the first year anniversary of September 11th she called in sick from an underground security bunker in Jersey. None of us knew how she got there, but none of us really cared either. Her favorite phrase is, "bloody terrorists". I don't even think she's English.7

Reading the article brought with it a tinge of guilt for my disbelief in Margie's statistics. The paper quoted several city health officials saying that those affected should remain in their homes and set up a schedule with a relative for hourly check-ups.8

The tone of the article made me sick to my stomach—that uneasy feeling that comes shortly after you hear news of a tragedy. But no feeling, no matter how uneasy, can conjure a rash and make my muscles turn to powder.9

I sighed and rolled over in bed, wincing as the blankets scratched against my skin. It took half an hour to find a comfortable position and it was just after I found it that I had forgotten to call my brother and ask him to check on me in a few hours. As my eyes closed and a gentle rest came over me I heard someone scream outside and an explosion shook the walls, knocking my mirror off the wall. But as the sirens wailed in the distance all I could do was whisper.10

"Bloody terrorists."