Around the turn of the 21st century, a bee stung me. My entire right hand swelled. Mom recommended I make a paste out of meat tenderizer and put it on my affected hand, but a few sun salutations had a more dramatic effect. The extra fluid pulsed and coursed through my lymphatic vessels during that yoga warm up. My hand looked normal the next day.
Friends concluded I was allergic to bees. Without ever consulting a doctor for an allergy test, I believed I was allergic to bees. This first time had warned me. The next time would put me in anaphylactic shock. I went to a drugstore to buy an epi-pen. I couldn’t believe that lifesaving device needed a doctor’s prescription.
Stubbornness prevented me from seeing a doctor. Instead, I’d spend the rest of my life avoiding bees. When among fools who weren’t allergic to bees, but chose to swat wildly at these insects, which ironically increased their probability of being stung, I sat very still and calmly, but firmly asked them to stop, explaining my allergy.
The only upside to fear is respecting the source. Whenever I was outside on a warm sunny day, I kept an eye out for bees. I stopped wearing perfume unless I was going out at night. I took a longer route to avoid visible bee activity. I gently blew them away when they landed near or on me.
Independence Day 2015 rolled around. One of my nieces had been visiting me for the week. We’d just left touring the LBJ Museum and started eating our burger, fries and malted shakes outside a local fast food joint. Absentmindedly, I brushed away something tickling my neck with one hand while holding my cheeseburger with the other. The scratch from my fingernail startled me. I inspected my nails and there weren’t any jagged edges. I rubbed the sore spot on my neck with growing awareness of what must have happened.
I asked my niece if she noticed any swelling on my neck. She didn’t. I breathed slowly and deeply, not wanting to alarm my little niece, while my mind raced. I casually looked up the symptoms of anaphylactic shock on my phone. Slow connection. I went to the bathroom to inspect my neck. No mirror.
Trying to sound normal, I told my niece I was going to the car to use the mirror. By this time, I saw a small red spot. The combination of heat and panic caused me to sweat. I felt a trickle between my breasts. I pulled my top out in order to wipe the sweat before it soaked my shirt and a bee flew out.
With visual confirmation, I gathered up my niece, hopped in the car and searched for a pharmacy. We never saw one until we reached the grocery store where I normally shopped. I walked a little faster than usual, making a beeline to the pharmacy. Fortunately, there was no line.
The pharmacist on duty recommended taking two benadryls, but took an agonizing amount of time telling me how long anaphylactic shock would kick in. Apparently, 30 minutes was considered “rapidly.” Since I hadn’t started coughing nor experiencing breathing problems at that point, I started to rethink my alleged bee sting allergy.
For less than $2, I got far more benadryl pills than I ever hoped to need in this lifetime. I popped two prior to driving straight home to sleep off the drug-induced drowsiness. Before falling asleep, I thought of all the unfinished things in my life, my visiting 16-year old niece, all the years I’d lived with the fear of being stung by a bee…
Despite all the research I’d done about having a deadly reaction to bee stings, I’d never read that swelling around the sting area was a normal reaction. Until that day.
On Independence Day 2015, the US celebrated our 239th freedom anniversary and I personally celebrated independence from my paranoia over dying from a bee sting. I still respect bees. I still believe in a gentle response when one buzzes near me. I no longer fear them.