Anaphylaxis and why we need to talk about it...

 

From the side of a hospital cot, watching the tornado of a child that Fred has turned into under the highest dose of antihistamines he’s ever had, plus steroids and recovery from an adrenaline injection, I find myself wondering what would have happened if his teacher hadn’t recognised the signs of anaphylaxis.

Just as I was about to call registration for Year 9, my line manager grabbed me: “You need to go, now. Fred’s been taken to Royal Glam Hospital.”

Fred is four. He suffers from severe allergies, asthma, eczema, and the dreaded anaphylaxis. At lunch, he’d told his teacher that something felt wrong. She noticed his face turning from pink to red, then came the cough. Being an allergy sufferer herself, she recognised the signs immediately. She acted fast, injected him, and called an ambulance.

Fred had told her it felt like an ice cube was in his throat, and it was getting bigger. She knew that in moments like this, every second counts. Speed is the difference between a child who lives and one who doesn’t.

When I arrived, the ambulance pulled in at the same time. My husband had beaten me there. We were rushed in. Fred was quiet, dazed, his usual chatter, songs, and questions replaced by a strange stillness. It was as if his body had gone through something enormous and his mind was trying to catch up.

We were kept in for observation, waiting for the medication to wear off. By 8 p.m., we were discharged, but uneasy. We’d been warned about the risk of a secondary reaction—and sure enough, around 4 a.m., he began struggling to breathe again. Back we went, spending most of the next day in hospital before being discharged once more.

I’ve lost count of how many times people have rolled their eyes when I mention allergies.
“Never had those in my day.”
“Are you sure it’s not attention-seeking?”
“Has he even been tested properly?”

Each comment reminds me just how dangerous the world can be for a child like mine, one living with an invisible condition that can turn fatal within minutes if untreated. A condition too often minimised, ridiculed, or blamed on him, or us.

I don’t know what I’ll do next. Raise awareness? Fundraise? Train his whole school? Or keep him home until he’s eighteen?

For now, I’m just trying to process how different the last few days could have been, if we hadn’t packed his EpiPen, if his teacher hadn’t been trained, if she hadn’t trusted her instincts.

For now, life goes on, almost as normal. And I’m holding my little tornado tighter, thankful that I still can.