School Firsts

We've had two school firsts in the last two weeks, one good, one not so good.  I've been wanting to write about the not so good one for the last day now, but it wasn't until right now, when I found this picture of

David's first homework

that I felt like I had found a way of saying everything I want to say.
Yesterday, when I arrived to pick David up at preschool, his teacher, Miss Y, found me before I got to David.  She said that the hives David had when he arrived were getting worse. 
When I dropped David off that morning I had told Miss Y that David had some hives on his forehead.  Timmy spit up some dairy based formula while David and Timmy were playing together and David got three or four hives from it.  This level of reaction occurs about once or twice a week just during the course of an ordinary day at home.  I just wanted her to know that the hives had occurred at home, that I was aware of them and that I believed them to be a minor allergic reaction that didn't merit concern.
So, when Miss Y said the hives were getting worse, immediately an alarm went off in my head.  It had been over two hours since I had last seen David.  Allergic reactions, typically, don't get worse over that length of time without continued exposure.
David ran over; his face was breaking out in hives.  All around his mouth.  The teacher explained that David had been exposed to dairy during snack time.  They serve the children that aren't allergic or intolerant milk during snack time (there's at least one other child in the class that doesn't drink milk).  She said that David had, without her knowledge, gone to the snack cart and poured a cup of milk.  She learned of it when David called to her and told and showed her what he had done.  Miss Y told me she didn't think David had drank any milk.  I bent down and asked David, "Did you drink any milk?"  He said no and I believed him.  But looking into his face again I could see that the hives were growing and new ones appearing just in this brief conversation. 
His whole face was turning red.
I half listened to Miss Y, who had moved on to talk about other things David had done in class.  My mind ran to the car where my first line of defense was waiting in the diaper bag - a premeasured plastic spoon of benadryl.  I asked David again about the milk.  He said no, he didn't drink any milk.  I still believed him.  I told him that he had to be careful.  He's allergic to milk, I told him.  He can't touch the milk, he can't pour it, he can't drink it.
David started crying.
I hugged him to me and told him it was okay.  He just needed to be careful.  Miss Y also helped encourage.  We told him not to cry, he hadn't been a bad boy, we weren't mad at him.
Then he coughed.  And that's when I said a quick good-bye to his teacher and walked him quickly to the car.
First, I found the benadryl.  But David was coughing and upset.  He didn't want to take the medicine.  That was odd.  David never complains about taking medicine.  So that made me nervous.  My first thought was that his breathing must be bad enough that he doesn't want to take the medicine because he's too busy working to breathe.
After a few soothing words he took the benadryl.  Buckle us all in.  Go as fast as the speed limit will let me the less than five minutes home.  Unbuckle us.  I tell David to get inside the house, go to his puffer machine and sit down.  I'll get Timmy and be right there.  David stands there and cries.  He doesn't want to walk to the couch.  Now I'm very nervous.  He's very stressed out.  He doesn't want to talk medicine or walk. 
I encourage him while I grab Timmy, my cell phone and the diaper bag where the epi-pen is.  At this point I'm as aware of the epi-pen's presence as I am of my own or David's or Timmy's. 
We all get inside.  David finds his spot.  He's had several breathing treatments recently, so he knows the drill.  He knows where the nebulizer, which we call his puffer machine, is and where he needs to sit so that I can reach the nebulizer and bring a mask to his face.  I plop Timmy down with some toys, grab the albuterol capsule for the machine, and pour it into the well as I walk to David. 
I sat with him and helped him take big deep breaths.  He said he couldn't.  By a combination of pointing and words he made me aware that his nose was completely stuffed.  So he couldn't take deep breaths through his nose the way I've taught him.  I told him and showed him how to take breaths with his mouth.  He did it.  His crying slowed.
I called Chris, told him the basics.  He said he'd be home as soon as he could.
I checked on David again and it's obvious that he's getting better.  His face isn't as red, he isn't crying, he isn't coughing.  No epi-pen needed today.  He's feeling better after the albuterol, so I do the only other thing I can think to do to make sure that he's done with reaction - we wash our hands.  After that we sat and talked about why he had been sick and what he needed to be careful of so that it didn't happen again.  He seemed to understand as well as he can, definitely better than he's understood after previous reactions. 
Over the next hour, David cuddled for a while with his mimi (his special lovey), and his blankie while watching cartoons.  I offered him lunch, thinking that he wouldn't want any after the ordeal, but he requested a waffle and wolfed it down.  That reassured me a lot.  During that time I got Timmy fed.  Thank God he's able to feed himself Cheerios, so that took very little energy while I focused mostly on David.  Chris came home.  We all exchanged hugs and I decompressed a little, identifying and elaborating on the emotions I was feeling.
As I said in my first post about preschool earlier this month, this is something we were prepared for.  Mentally we've prepared for years for this moment.  We've made the choices and acknowledged that it would probably have this outcome.  Physically we've prepared too.  We've made sure that an epi-pen goes with David wherever he goes.  We have an emergency inhaler with albuterol that goes with David to preschool.  At home with have a nebulizer.  We keep the epi-pen updated and keep enough albuterol on hand.  I buy benadryl and zyrtec in premeasured doses in plastic spoons so that I can keep some on hand wherever we go.  But emotionally I was toast.  I handled my emotions while David needed me to.  Kept moving and planning what the next step would be, running contingency plans.  Once David was out of danger my emotions rushed back in.
Relief that we were able to treat it at home, that this reaction wasn't bad enough to require an epi-pen.
Anxiety about planning, organizing, and teaching more to David and Miss Y and Miss A so that this of reaction can be avoided as much as possible.
Sadness that all I can do is plan and organize and teach.  I can't change David's life.  I can't cure him so this doesn't happen again and I would give anything to keep him from the pain and stress he felt yesterday.
But I acknowledge the emotions.  I acknowledge that just as severe allergic reactions are bound to happen, my emotions are a part of that process in a sequential, normal way. ... And then I eat cheez-its, talk to friends and family, write this post and move on.
And that brings me back to the beginning of this post.  David's first page of homework.  A counter balance to the negative of a first school severe allergic reaction .... the positive of the pride and excitement of his first page of homework.  It's not going to win any awards, but it's a fantastic first step to wherever David chooses to take his life.  It mitigates all my emotions about the allergic reaction.  It reminds me that he's got to take all these first steps, some good, some bad, to create a life that is uniquely his own.