Peanuts are like my kryptonite

I’ve never been so happy to be allergic to peanuts. While the rest of the country is fretting whether to enjoy their sticky treat of choice because of a nationwide salmonella scare, I’ve been merrily oblivious. A PB&J is essentially my kryptonite, though if it were green I’d guarantee it had salmonella.

According to the American Academy of Allergy, Asthma and Immunology, as many as 1.5 million people suffer from a peanut allergy. Annually, about 100 people die from a reaction.

I’ve been close to death on at least one occasion, maybe two. It is not fun. My family discovered I was allergic when I was 16 months old — my dad thought it would be “fun” to feed his infant son a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. We were visiting my grandparents on their rural farm, 45 minutes away from our home and at least half an hour from the nearest hospital.

I began crying almost immediately. My mom discovered hives all over my body and was worried. My dad, the tough-guy type, was convinced she was seeing things and thought she had pinched me while putting me in my car seat. For 45 minutes I screamed the whole way home, until my mom finally called our beloved Dr. Sicher.
A few minutes later I was in the hospital, and was diagnosed as being allergic to peanut butter.
Ever since then I’ve tried to avoid the food most people rank as their favorite “guilty pleasure.” While my friends would be jumping for joy on peanut butter sandwich day at school, I was mortified.
What if the peanut butter came in contact with me? Would anyone know what to do to save me?
Those are some pretty heavy thoughts for a kindergartner.
Nowadays kids have peanut-free tables, even peanut-free zones. Not me. I was what I like to consider a pioneer, or maybe a guinea pig.

The first real crisis I can remember came in the second grade. A classmate had brought in salt-water taffy. I remember asking what was in it, and getting a dismissive “salt and water.”

Being 8 and loving sweets, I dug in. I was probably through about five pieces when I didn’t feel well. My skin itched. My stomach turned. I threw up. I couldn’t breathe.

I ended up spending close to a week in the hospital, hooked up to IVs because I was dehydrated. Apparently I was pretty close to death.

As most people know, kids can be cruel. No one really believed I was that allergic. My Little League teammates would hold me down and try to shove peanut butter cups in my mouth. They succeeded once or twice, but I would spit them out before I could get sick.

Another time in sixth grade one of my “friends” thought it would be funny to wipe peanut butter on my arm. It left a mark. My “peanut butter stain” faded as years went by — it isn’t visible anymore — so very few people actually believe it happened. But it did.

I had reactions from almonds and walnuts too, just not as severe, so as I grew older I learned to avoid anything that was even remotely connected to nuts.

There were a few times mistakes, though.

I had a nut-free candy dish in my room in college. Occasionally my friends would drop off candy for the dish.

One time my good friend Jeff dropped off a bunch, not knowing there was a peanut butter-filled candy in the mix.

One night I woke up hungry for candy — I know, weird — and reached into my candy jar. The next thing I know, my throat is swelling shut and I have to hit myself in the leg with an EpiPen.

It’s not a fun experience driving a three-inch needle into your thigh.

Another time my friend Ogre claimed he saved me when he hurled every inch of his 6-foot-4-inch, 300-pound frame in my direction, ripping what I thought was a maple-filled donut out of my hands.

I still say I would have figured it out and spit it to the curb. I think he just wanted my donut.

While some of my stories may be funny, having a peanut allergy is no laughing matter. So the next time you make Christmas cookies for a friend, or think about deep-frying your turkey in peanut oil, take a second and think of whom you might be feeding.

Their first bite may be their last.