Special

Tomorrow, I get to load Seven into the van and head to the office of someone who decided at some point to make a life out of the unusual. He's a specialist--an allergist who works only with very specific, very off-the-beaten-path sensitivities. Honestly, I feel blessed that he's so close and so accessible. For the hundredth time in our marriage, I am also so, so thankful that Mr. Blandings learned how to negotiate health care benefits as part of his employment package.


"I'm at a loss but, well, there's this one guy," the doctor said, "He sees people with the more uncommon allergies--metals, scents, chemicals, the stuff that is innocuous to the population at large. You could try him, but ..."


See, there's no 'but.' It's my daughter, it's scary, and you know, it's not about the money or the distance. 


Because yes, plenty of people have pooh-poohed this situation. Family members have been the worst, to be honest. I'm assuming that they just don't get it. Heck--I wouldn't get it if I hadn't seen it. But watching an angry, red flare spread across your daughter's lips and cheeks within minutes of her mouthing a wiffle ball will make you a believer. Having to explain to people that the scarlet welts on your toddler's neck are from leaning over on a plastic picnic bench will make you a believer. 


So we're heading to the specialist. Praying for good news, wise direction, and a toolbox of coping skills for navigating this big old scary plastic world. Pray for us, will you?