Not to Be Sneezed At

I’d have liked a boyfriend, like my friends. But there were complications . . .

GIVE her some room.” “Give her space to breathe.” “I don’t think she is breathing. Phone an ambulance!”

I was aware of the voices and the faces looming over me. This had happened to me enough times to know what it was, but it didn’t stop me being terrified.

The average time for an emergency ambulance to arrive in my area is five minutes. Anaphylaxis can kill in that time if not treated with an adrenaline injection.

I carry two injection pens at all times but I’m dependent on someone finding them and administering it correctly.

Fortunately, one of the good Samaritans who stopped to help me was on the ball. She found the pen and gave me the injection that revived me in a few moments.

The paramedics arrived a minute or so later and whisked me off to hospital.

So here I was, sitting on a trolley in A&E for the umpteenth time this year. It would be nice if they had a “frequent flyers” lounge where their regular customers could wait.

Of course, by now, having been removed for some time from whatever triggered the attack, I appeared to be perfectly fine. All I wanted to do was replace the injection pen and go home. But hospital bureaucracy will not be ignored. So I waited.

I drifted off into a daydream about how my life would be if I wasn’t allergic to just about everything.

When I’d collapsed I was at a bus stop and I was fairly sure the attack had been triggered by the fragrance of the aftershave worn by the chap in front of me in the queue. This was why I rarely took public transport.

I work from home most of the time, to minimise my exposure to allergy triggers. But the previous day I’d been unable to resist going for a quick walk in the sunshine.

When I got back there was a card pushed through the letter-box. We tried to deliver your parcel but you were out.

The collection office was on the other side of town. There was also a phone number to arrange redelivery, but the parcel contained work supplies that I needed urgently. So this morning I’d set off.

And that’s how I ended up wasting most of the day in hospital, still minus my parcel. I checked the phone number again and rang them to book the latest possible time slot. Then I sat back to resume my wait.

My thoughts drifted back through the years to my childhood, when my allergies had first shown up. Not for me the usual hay fever or pet allergies. No, mine weren’t as obvious, though the first sign was often a sneezing fit.

Strong fragrances could set me off. I remember Mum’s sad expression as she disposed of her collection of expensive perfumes on the doctor’s advice.

Then there were the foods I couldn’t eat, each one bringing on a more spectacular reaction than the last. Of course it was all the fun stuff that was banned – popcorn, most fast foods, all my favourite chocolates and sweets.

Birthday party invitations dwindled as my schoolfriends’ parents fretted at the prospect of being the one who finally caused little Paloma’s demise.

I lasted half a term at secondary school before it became clear that home schooling would have to be the way forward.

Mum waved

goodbye to her budding career in publishing and Dad had to take on extra work to make up for the lost income.

Mum did her best, bless her, and I sailed through my exams a year early. But we had our moments along the way.

“We should concentrate on getting you through your English and Maths,” she said. “Then choose subjects that can be studied at home.”

That sounded like years of boredom for me. I wanted to see a bit of the outside world – go on field trips to museums and galleries.

I could be pretty persuasive when I put my mind to it, which is how I ended up being picked up by paramedics from such places as the Natural History Museum and Edinburgh Castle.

On one memorable occasion the mountain rescue team brought me down from the top of Mount Snowdon.

“It’s nearly every time we go out, darling!” Mum argued.

She put her foot down. Field trips were banned.

I still had one or two friends who popped round to see me occasionally, but fragrance bans and being searched for snack foods were a lot for teenage girls to put up with.

Friendships with boys were the stuff of dreams and fantasy. The boys I’d known at primary school had forgotten the weird girl with the odd name who used to faint in assembly every week or so and I had no opportunity to meet boys any more.

It didn’t bother me until my last remaining mates, Rosie and Anna, started to drift away. It dawned on me that they’d both found boyfriends.

The years passed and I thought of leaving home. Mum put up a good show of not wanting me to leave but I could see a hint of relief in her eyes. I was lucky to find a job I could do from home that paid enough for me to rent my tiny flat.

I became resigned long ago to my solitary life.

Yes, it would be lovely to meet someone to share my life with, but who would be willing to give up so much?

Imagine a first date where, before you met, you’d have to shower in unscented products; rinse all your clothing twice to remove all chemical scents; not wear any aftershave; brush your teeth hours earlier to ensure no hint of minty breath and eat nothing containing spices or garlic for 48 hours beforehand.

The venue, too, would be difficult to choose. Almost all restaurants would be off limits due to spices, and the same for the cinema due to the fragrance of popcorn.

As you can see, it’s a good job I’m happy in my own company.

But, yes, I do get lonely sometimes. I’m only human.

At long last the doctor came back with a prescription and instructions to rest. It was already nearly three o’clock. If I wanted to be back in time for my delivery I’d have to take a taxi.

So after a half hour wait at the pharmacy I was in the back of a mini-cab on the way home.

The front door of my building was in sight when I saw the white van pull up at the kerbside. I quickened my pace so I could be inside my flat before the delivery driver rang the bell.

It was always easier if I could just buzz the door and shout through the intercom for the driver to leave the parcel in the hall.

Less chance of coming into contact with any of my triggers. Less need for any social interaction, too. I’ll chat on social media for ages but put me face to face with a real person, especially a male person, and I’m struck dumb.

But I arrived at the front door at the same moment as the delivery driver.

Oliver, his name badge proclaimed. He was gorgeous. Predictably, I was speechless.

“Ms Paloma Bradbury?” Oliver said.

“Yes,” I squeaked. Something that struck me as odd. I was returning from a day in hospital following a near-death experience. I was make-up free and probably looking at my roughest.

Yet Oliver was looking at me as if I was the best thing he’d seen all day.

The realisation gave me a warm thrill and I had to make a conscious effort not to grin like an idiot.

“The parcel’s quite heavy,” Oliver said. “I’ll carry it in for you.”

I opened the main door and led the way up the two flights of stairs to my flat. Oliver deposited the box just inside my door and gave me the digital pad to sign.

“Do you mind if I ask you about the sign on your doorbell?” he said.

Great, I thought. Here’s where I explain about my allergies and he leaves and I never see him again . . .

I had put up a sign years ago, after one too many doorstep encounters with cold callers. Anyone who’s been a bit over enthusiastic with the deodorant spray can seriously damage my health.

Over time I’d amended the sign from a polite request for unexpected visitors not to ring the bell, to the current one which, admittedly, is a little over the top.

It lists half a dozen categories of visitor who aren’t welcome, and instructs that deliveries should be left in the hall.

“Sorry I had to ignore it,” Oliver continued. “I’m new in the job and I knew I had to get a signature.”

“It’s fine. I can explain about the sign.” I could hardly believe what I was about to say. “Do you fancy a coffee and I can tell you all about it?”

My heart rate was soaring. But having been treated at A&E earlier, I knew that the medication they’d given me meant that, for a few hours at least, I was less likely to suffer an allergic reaction than at any other time.

There had been an instant connection between Oliver and me and I was determined to jump in with both feet for once in my life.

“I don’t make a habit of inviting strangers in for coffee,” I said as I put the kettle on.

Now that we were in the kitchen it suddenly seemed like I was being a bit forward.

“I guessed that from the doorbell sign!”

Oliver laughed. The sound filling the room was so unusual it made me catch my breath – in a good way.

“. . . And that’s why I have the sign – to minimise the risk of opening the door to people who might set off a reaction,” I said as I finished telling Oliver about all the different things that can trigger my allergies.

He was thoughtful for a moment.

“I need to get the van back to the depot.”

My heart sank. I’d let myself hope that this time things might be different. That I might have met a new friend and, maybe, even more than a friend.

Now I felt foolish and all I wanted was for him to clear off as quickly as possible and leave me to wallow in my solitude.

Then, like a light being switched on, Oliver gave me a beaming grin.

“But if you feel like giving me that forty-eight hour start, I’ll make sure I don’t eat anything spicy or garlicky or . . . Look, can you write down the rest of those things you rattled off? You know, the instructions for someone who might want to take you on a date?” n

For once in my life I was determined to jump in