After a break-the-ice chat during which Greta toyed with a cross-section of a human brain and what looked to me like plastic models of the small intestine, we were ushered into the exam room. First we watched a DVD advertisement for an EpiPen, a lovely device that people with severe allergic reactions are instructed to jam into the outside of their thigh, straight through any clothing, when they've eaten too many peanuts or buried their face in cat fur. Then the nurse explained to us that she was going to prick Greta five times with tiny plastic needles (they looked sort of like miniature versions of the plastic sticks that hold homemade popsicles, but sharper). One was "the control," containing just water, one was a histamine, just to prove to the doctor that Greta's skin would indeed react if agitated, one was concentrated egg (the allergy for which Greta was being tested), one was the active ingredient in flu shots (to see if she could get a regular dose when it's ever available around here), and the fifth, well, it escapes me.
So the nurse asks us to lift up Greta's shirt. All the pricks would be on her back. As soon as we unsnap the onesie, she starts whining and clings tighter to Mommy. Following protocol, the nurse takes a marker (permanent, of course, so the marks will take, oh, a week to wash away) and carves tiny, blue hieroglyphics on her back, one for each of the five samples. As Greta feels the marker tip on her back, her whine becomes more of a low-grade howl. But it doesn't hurt yet, so she's not apopleptic.Marks made, it's time for the plastic prickers. Thankfully, the nurse is quick, although prick #2 doesn't work, so she reaches for a second sample and hits the same spot again. Greta's howl is now a roar, with salty tears streaming down her face. I start punching the air with each prick, like I'm celebrating a touchdown or something. Carey begins to sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." Loudly. None of it works. The whole process takes maybe a minute. When it's over, we're told to wait 15 minutes and then they'll examine the welts and decode them for us.
So we watch the Wiggles. Capt. Freakin' Feathersword. Greta is interested for about 2 minutes. She then amuses herself by removing tissues from the box and mock wiping her nose. The tears dry quickly and she's back to her curious self after about 5 minutes. The nurse and the doctor return after 15, and we're told to pull up Greta's shirt again. Needless to say, it's a lot like ringing Pavlov's bell. Greta thrusts out her lower lip and begins to whimper. The nurse takes out a plastic ruler to measure the spots, the biggest of which looks like a mosquito bite. As the ruler touches her back, Greta rachets the whimper up into a howl again, and the tears begin to stream. The analysis takes about 5 minutes and the news is positive: Greta may be allergic to concentrated eggs, but she's likely to outgrow it. We should avoid giving her scrambled eggs, but shouldn't worry about other foods unless egg is the first ingredient on the label, like egg pasta.
5 minutes after hearing the good news, we pack up and start to leave. Greta's face is still wet with a few un-wiped tear streaks and her expression can best be described as worried. Who knows when somebody might lift up her shirt again and poke her back? But she relaxes a little when she figures out that we're really leaving. As we walk out of the exam room, Greta pivots on Mommy's hip, looks directly at the nurse who inflicted all the pain, and says, "Shank you. Bye-bye." And then... and then... she blows her a kiss!
Our little torture lover!
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