I lay in bed. I hear the kitchen. My daughters chase each other, arguing over a toy or something they deem unfair. I hear the grinding of oats. The grinding of coffee. The whir of machines. I reluctantly get out of bed. I do not look in the mirror, I skip the bathroom, and walk downstairs to join the rest of my family.
Each morning my husband makes homemade waffles. He grinds gluten free oats. I procure goods. I am a researcher of safe ingredients. He’s the scientist that makes wheat free concoctions that taste like you aren’t missing anything. It was not always this way. We worked 60-hour plus work weeks and made 10 pm dinners together. The two of us before kids. We joked that it was continental. We experimented with recipes and often grabbed pupusas on the way home. Our favorite Salvadoran takeout place knew us by name and order. We loved work, we loved yummy food and never thought about food allergies.
Before I met my husband, his fridge contained hotdogs, questionable sauerkraut (which is saying a lot because it’s sauerkraut.) I helped stock his pantry. Introduced him to new produce and spices. It became our date night trying new recipes after long work weeks. Grocery shopping was an adventure. Our walks to the store and carrying bags back home. That feeling of warmth and smiles even on the coldest of nights. That feeling of freedom playing in the kitchen, listening to music.
Every morning, as I lay in bed, I wonder can that ever be again.
Her face, calm and expressionless. The neighbors watching from afar. The atypical warm November sun on my skin. I can’t hear anything. The EMT ushers me into the ambulance and I sit down and buckle myself in. My daughter is next to me on a stretcher hooked up to a heart rate monitor. I tell her she can squeeze my hand. Her tiny three-year-old hand. I answer medical history questions. I see the world through the back of the ambulance. I feel her hand holding on tight to mine, connected, and I’ve never loved so much.
That morning I just needed five more minutes. I came downstairs and it was too late. My husband fed our daughter an unsafe toaster waffle. I wanted to blame him, but I bought them. The box looked like the wheat free waffle box. Why didn’t he double check? Why didn’t I double check? Why are the wheat and wheat free boxes similar? Maybe it would be ok. She only had a few hives. I watched closely as her body tried to fight. Her hives went away. My husband went to work. I thought maybe she was in the clear, but I knew sometimes allergic reactions are delayed.
Two hours later her skin flared like a burn slowly down her body. First, behind her ears, then her neck, her shoulders, and chest. When she looked at me, I knew it was time. She told me her belly hurt and grabbed my hand. I sat her in a chair and administered her epi-pen into her thigh. Her sister screamed in fear as she watched us. She outwardly felt what I wanted to feel. I called 911 and went out to meet the ambulance. The three of us. Me and my three- and five-year-old. I elevated my three-year-old’s legs and turned her head to the side if she vomited. I informed the EMTs while I let my five-year-old scream as she hid behind me. This is what it must feel like to be torn in half.
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1 ¼ c. gluten free (gf) oats, make sure the grinder knob is turned all the way clockwise. Run at 10-speed. Add gf oat flour to the bowl. Add 1 tsp gf baking powder, 1 tsp of sugar, and a pinch of salt. Mix. Add ¾ c. milk and 1 tbsp olive oil or butter. Mix. Spoon onto hot waffle iron.
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My husband makes these waffles every morning since anaphylaxis. We double check ingredients using a checks and balance system. Me and him. He takes care to show me what he does to ensure our daughter is not eating her allergen.
We live in a wheat free house.
We sit down together each morning and eat delicious wheat free waffles. The four of us.
And, I know my answer, I’ve always known it.
But still, I lay in bed those extra five minutes remembering the past and wishing for the future.