Last night, I finished the new book, “Don’t Kill the Birthday Girl” by Sandra Beasley. It’s an excellent memoir reflecting on the author’s life as a sufferer of multiple, life-threatening food allergies. As the mother of a kid with allergies to nine different foods, some of which are deadly, I was enthralled.
A simple trip to the grocery store can take two hours due to the meticuloius label-reading involved.
The author, like my daughter, is incredibly allergic to milk. My daughter threw up after licking a clean spoon that had just come out of the dishwasher. That spoon had been used to stir cheese sauce the night before. She’s broken out in hives just walking into a Baskin Robbins (from the powdered milk dust in the air). As a baby, she had an anaphylactic reaction to a teething biscuit with milk protein listed as the sixth ingredient.
At one point in the book, Beasley wonders if motherhood is an option for her. Having a very restrictive diet can make breastfeeding difficult. Life-threatening allergies to milk and soy rule out baby formula; that fine milk and soy dust is a reaction waiting to happen. I’d always assumed I’d be a grandparent some day. Of course my daughter would be a mom. I’d never taken the leap to critically thinking about the way her allergies could impact the life choices that I take for granted.
I’ve focused a lot on keeping my daughter alive, safe and accepted (in that order). I still have a lot of control over my kid and have never thought what adulthood might look like for her until reading this book. The author describes having severe reactions on dates, at cocktail parties, during lots of weddings, while traveling and from just living day-to-day life. But her attitude is phenomenal. There’s no hint of “woe is me.”
Me, on the other hand, is woe. I get down in the dumps a lot over our version of normal life. Grocery shopping, which used to be quick and inexpensive, now requires meticulous label reading and several phone calls to manufacturers (not to mention what buying rice milk produced in a dedicated milk- and nut- free facility does to my wallet). We have to skip a lot things: she’s not in daycare, we’re very careful about public places, and birthday parties – all that ice cream and cake and PB&Js – give me ulcers and insomnia to even think about. The fact is, every time my child eats or is around other people eating, there’s a chance she’ll die and sometimes it’s hard to stay positive.
In the last chapter, Beasley describes a Richard Scarry (of “Busytown” fame) poster that hung in her pediatric allergist’s waiting room. She draws the conclusion, in the final paragraphs, that our world is indeed a very Busy Town and everyone is going about their own lives. They have their own problems, and we can’t expect everyone to take on our problems as well.
This morning I looked at the details in my daughter’s Busytown book and also in Where’s Waldo, which is sort of the same deal. I realized that in searching for Gold Bug in the former and Waldo in the latter, I’d missed the big picture of the surrounding world. There was SO MUCH happening, in so much detail. People were happy, in pain, working, crying, smiling, losing hats, playing games, alone, with family, driving, broken down, old, young, small, large.
Of course, I live in the real Busy Town. While my daughter would certainly welcome the one-hour bedtime delay required to scrutinize each page and discuss each character in detail, my real Busy Town is a nightly race involving a bath, pajamas, allergy meds, eczema lotion, cortisone, vitamins, teeth brushing, detangling and at least seven trips to the bathroom, six of which are completely unnecessary. I’m busy. I don’t have time to analyze a pencil-shaped car full of mice.
But unlike Richard Scarry’s Busytown, my real Busy Town has a one very important building in the middle and over 80 other buildings surrounding it. United Way and our partner agencies notice all the things that we, with our hectic, Busy Town lives, miss. They help those who need help. They feed the hungry, comfort the ailing and rescue those in danger. Also, these agencies are run by humans, which I posit, are much more reliable than pigs, mice and bears.
There’s a moral here. When you’re only focused on one thing, you miss out on the world around you. Am I really too busy to spend an extra five minutes each night cuddling with my preschooler so we can talk about all that’s happening on one page of a book? No, I’m not.
For me, not missing out on the world around me means focusing less on my kid’s disability by celebrating the amazing and ordinary things she does. It’s so vital for her (and me) to focus on all the things she CAN do, the delicious and healthy foods she CAN eat, the places we can go and the true, loyal friends we have.
For some people, living in a Busy Town means that we’re stuck in traffic and all we see is the rear bumper that jerk in front of us on I-40 who won’t inch up so we can switch lanes to get to our exit. We miss the hawk sitting a few feet away from us, just off the shoulder. We squander the opportunity to enjoy some alone time and listen to a great audio book. We fail to celebrate the fact that every single one of those thousands of cars around us each has a person with a unique story, and is the most important person in the whole wide world to someone.
For others, being a Busytown resident means that you’re the one being passed by because everyone around you is so busy. You’re hungry, hurt, alone and everyone around you is just chasing their hats through the wind, too busy to notice.
Open your eyes. Be a responsible Busytown citizen. Stop looking for Gold Bug (or Waldo – pick your poison) and see each page, each person, each life. You’ll find there are a hundred ways for you to help every day. Yes, we’re all busy, but isn’t life so much sweeter when we’re busy helping each other?
Great post Shelly!