Almost Momless

In June 1995, my husband Tim and our children Katie 8, Bethy 7, Brendan 5, and Brigid almost 2 and I moved from Maplewood Avenue in Chicago to Valparaiso, Indiana. I loved our Chicago block. The Maplewood friends were tons of fun and amazing looker-outers for each others’ kids.  Many were police officers, firefighters and city workers. 

In late August, Maplewood hosted a back-to-school block party on the Friday night before school began. Like a sixth grader, I could not wait for our sleepover at Erin and Joe Lorenz’ house, our old next door neighbors. I loved them. Tim was in Lake Geneva at a work golf outing.

The kids and I loaded the minivan with coolers and backpacks and drove across the Illiana border. I parked at the end of the blocked-off street and joined my friends at the party area with eight-foot tables loaded with treats, desserts, and pizza, the main course. The kids ran free, and I slipped right into my Maplewood groove. 

I caught up with friends and basked in being home. While chatting, I bit into a piece of pizza and thought I bit my tongue, something I’d done before in moments of excited chatter, but this time it felt like I gouged my tongue with a bread knife. Then my eyes felt irritated.

I asked my friend Rose Crnjak, 

“Rose, can I use your bathroom? I got new contacts this week, and my eyes are bugging me.” I’d had reactions to latex when draped for haircuts, so I figured the plastic in lenses must have changed. Rose walked with me to her house halfway down the block. 

I went into the bathroom and struggled to get my contacts out because my eyes were swelling. I looked in the mirror and said out loud to myself. “Holy shit.  I look like the Elephant Man.”

Rose knocked on the door to check on me, and I said,

“I can’t come out, Rose, There’s something happening to my face. Can you get some ice for me?”

Rose said firmly, “Nancy, open the door.” She looked at me, gasped and ran out her front door yelling, “I’m getting Greg Fricks.” Greg Fricks is a paramedic who lived across the street. 

Rose and Greg ran the half block back to me while I splashed cold water on my face. Greg shouted, “Let’s go! We gotta go!”

Go where? I thought. I gotta get my kids. 

Greg rushed me to his minivan in his driveway across the street. Someone moved the street barrier, and he revved the van to Little Company of Mary Hospital, a few miles away. 

On the way, my head started to itch. It felt like creepy crawlees burrowing in my scalp. My mom taught me not to scratch in public, so I locked my arms at my sides. Then my armpits started prickling as if wet creatures were eating away at the skin. I clandestinely rubbed and didn’t want Greg to see. 

Then my crotch started screaming. I levated in the passenger seat from the itching. 

Greg kept glancing my way. I thought, All this from new contacts?

Greg screeched the van at the Emergency Room entrance and shouted, “Triage! Triage!” He pushed me into the ER all the time shouting, “Triage!” And nothing else. I flashbacked to choppers and Radar and Hawkeye. 

Three nurses shoved me into a wheelchair and whisked me into a room. By now, I was scratching like a maniac, my body unbearable and my groin on fire. A nurse pulled off my shirt and made silly comments about my squirming. Her imitations of me made me laugh.  

“Did you have anything to drink?” Another nurse asked. 

“Thooo beerth.” What happened to my tongue? It was the size of a giant bratwurst. 

She said, “Thoo beerth? You had thoo beerth?”

I nodded yes and laughed. She quipped to another nurse prepping who-knows-what, “Did you hear her say she had thoo beerth?”

I laughed again, shirtless and surrounded by my own MASH unit. 

Ping! Ping! They calmly explained and administered each shot of epinephrine and adrenaline. I trusted this competent team wholeheartedly, reminiscent of when I had babies. I wanted them to keep hurrying so I could get back to the block party.   

Someone wheeled me into a room with dim lights. Doctors checked me. One soothingly said I had been stung by a bee in the tongue. They had lost someone earlier that day because a bee got in a beer can. The guy did not make it. 

I dripped tears for many reasons - my kids, my husband, my friends, my family, my missed night of a lifetime. Silent tears.

I could not reach Tim on the post-golf boat tour of Lake Geneva. It was 1995. 

Erin called the hospital and assured me that the kids were fine. They were having a great time. 

My friend Peggy came to sit at my bedside, the systemic swelling persisting in lips, eyes, and body. I was so disappointed, sad, confused, numb. Scrambled emotions. Peggy made me laugh. She still does.

The next morning, I asked Tim to pick up the kids from Erin and Joe’s. I thought I’d be released any minute. I wanted out. The Lorenzes had watched seven kids under the age of eight, way too much to ask.    

A cardiologist preached about the severity of the allergy. They gave me an epipen and finally let me leave at 5:00pm. I walked the miles to my minivan. I didn’t want to ask for a ride. I had put enough people out in two days. 

As I passed my old house, I shivered. If I had gone into that building, I would have put ice on my face and tipped back on the couch to wait for the swelling to go down.  

I did not stop to talk to old neighbors, to say I’m okay. I didn’t want any hoopla.

During the following weeks, I went into a weird funk. “What if’s?” haunted me. Life goes on - whether I’m around or not. Everybody has a good time. Everybody is fine without me. I should have seen a therapist. I had the shit scared out of me. Tim didn’t talk about it, and I saw this as him not caring.  

T-God, I see things differently now. I am so darn grateful for goodness everywhere and in everyone. 

Rose Crnjak saved my life. She’s a hero to me. She did not have thoo beerth. She did not drink. 

Rose died of a heart attack in 2006. Tim and I sat with Erin and Joe at her funeral at St. Cajetan. I wish I had thanked them more for watching our kids that night. I should have thanked Greg Fricks more. I never thanked Rose enough.

She knows my gratitude now.