Day of transformation

So, the other day at the Reserve, Michael got stung by wasps and I was glad it wasn't me. On this day, it was me.

I felt the pain in the back of my right thigh. Thought it was some wood kicked up by the brushcutter. Then realised it wasn't. Felt pain in the left calf. Looked down, saw yellow and black. Screamed for Michael. Dropped the brushcutter. Ran to the yard. Michael got out my epipen and gave me a shot.

Then I had all this adrenaline and was marching around waiting to feel the itchiness and swelling.

Michael said, "I heard you screaming. But, well, you often scream. I thought you'd seen a vole or a toad." We laughed about that.

We wondered what to do. It says on the epipen, ring 999 and say anaphylactic shock. But that seemed extravagant. And surely something would be happening? And besides, given the state of the NHS it'd probably be too late anyway. And I had work to do for clients abroad. Two of them.

We waited and nothing happened except that the stings hurt.

Finally, I went home and bought some piriton as a man who has a mild allergic reaction recommended that. In the pharmacy, the pharmacist said I was fine. Basically, I'd be dead by then if I was going to react.

Later, I felt cold though my legs were on fire. I burst out crying. I sat and wondered at it all.

So, it seems I am not subject to anaphylactic shock.

It was strange how scared I was. But I think I was scared as much as anything of the hassle: of having to do something. Like go to the hospital. Dying would be inconvenient, but so would the hospital and I'd be conscious and know how inconvenient it was. Dead would just be dead. That couldn't be scary. I mean, I wouldn't have to apologise for not getting the work done.

Anyway, I am alive. I suppose.