Hold The Nuts
Is it weird to say that I grew up, gained a heart, and found the secret to friendship when I was seven years old?
Growing up, I was opinionated. (I still am, honestly.) I loved American History, hot pink everything, Disney music, and Jeopardy. I detested math, the dark, orange, the Muppets, and anything nut related. I went so far as to insist my mom wash the knife after making my younger sister PB&J sandwiches. I’d crack walnuts (a Christmas tradition on my dad’s side) but never eat them. I hated the smell of hazelnut coffee.
I’d just turned seven the week before a Christmas caroling party at the Hunt Home, a senior center that my family and church frequently volunteered at. The singing done and the socializing nearly finished, I asked for a second cookie from the volunteer refreshment table. My dad agreed, and I grabbed a sugar cookie. Correction, I grabbed what I thought was a sugar cookie.
Cut to three hours later - my whole family is home, and I’m finally starting to feel better after vomiting no less than three times. I’d only taken one bite of the peanut butter cookie before spitting it out, disgusted. One bite was enough.
The next three months were a flurry of doctor’s appointments; there was blood testing at my pediatrician's, then 48 needles containing different common allergen proteins stuck into my back. I was, indeed, allergic to peanuts. All nuts, actually. Soy, corn, sesame, peas, and chickpeas were added to the list, along with a handful of animal and environmental allergies. My mom was constantly on her computer, researching how to keep her oldest child alive in a world that was just discovering that allergies were affecting more and more kids.
Suddenly I wasn’t normal - my food was homemade, hand-delivered, and hard to explain. I wasn’t ostracized, exactly, but the hassle of explaining why I couldn’t eat the cake at Timmy’s birthday or Nana’s house was not my idea of easy.
The thing about being different in ways that aren’t as obvious, though, is that you’re able to better understand and empathize with people who are similar. I feel as if I’m better able to handle the un-average than most people, because I’m not average. The amount of facets about my life that I have to consistently explain (from allergies to my African-American hair) have made me more understanding than I think I would be without them.
The amount of maturity necessary to carry around two four-inch needles of a live-saving drug doesn’t just happen overnight but overtime my Epi-Pens taught me responsibility, self-discipline, and concern for friends who’ve developed diabetes. The attention to detail that it takes to read the ever-tinier lists of ingredients has helped my audio-wired brain in visual analysis better than any class ever could. When I outgrew most of my allergies in 8th grade, it was freeing. I could celebrate better when my sister overcame a learning disability. When I was hospitalized for a cross-contamination accident in July, it was terrifying and humbling, and so I didn’t complain or blame the victim when a diabetic friend’s hemoglobin count fell below the safe driving limit. I didn’t mind driving his car home because I knew I would’ve wanted the same after my allergy attack.
My friendships are deeper and my want to serve others is more desperate because I’ve spent more than half of my life needing support from people who understand and want to help. At my homeschool group, the unconventional friends I’ve made feature a diabetic, nineteen food allergies, three learning disabilities, one ADD, one ADHD, two chronically pained, one infection, an unhealthy marriage that led to divorce, depression, anxiety, divorced parents, and so much more in only a five-year span. I was indoctrinated into the group on a day I was deeply moody (a precursor to depression though I didn’t know that at the time.) The two girls who are now my best friends saw that I needed partnership for a science lab and offered me that partnership, and with that their friendship. When Camdyn, the first girl I’d talked to in that class, graduated last year, she wrote me a note in our yearbook. “When I saw you at co-op for the first time, I thought: "I want to be friends with that girl.” I'm so proud to be one of your friends. You have been such a blessing in my life. A shoulder to cry on, a sarcastic joke to laugh at, a simple hug…”
I told her what I’m telling you when I read that: I’m so grateful I learned to have deep friendships, real conversations, and genuinely want to give back. I don’t often think about what-might-have-beens in my life, but my allergy diagnosis is one of the questions I think about between homework, rehearsals, hangouts, and creating Star Wars memes.
Henry Miller wrote: “Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.” I don’t know why my body decides to attack the proteins that make up certain foods, animals, and the entire outdoors during the Spring. But I do know that I would not be as empathetic, understanding, or caring as I am today if not for that. I believe my friendships would be weaker, giving less, and my ego far too inflated. I would’ve grown up later, acted with reduced responsibility, and have mediocre maturity. It’s not the hand of cards I would’ve picked at seven years old, but it’s the one that’s made me a better person. It’s made me who I am. And for that I’m grateful.