Mother Knows Best

TW: Shades of abuse and control issues, swearing

Author's note: Written after an eczema flare-up. Hahaha !

**

Tonight, my baby Allison had me blocked again. It has been exactly the ninth time in her thirty-four years of existence she has jumped in that beat-up cobalt blue Honda Accord (safety alert!) in the middle of the night (safety alert!) and drove almost at the speed limit (GAAAAH !) to the harshly-lit emergency room of her nearest hospital.

Believe you me; I tried to stop her, to protest another instance of my girl distancing herself from the shield of my protection. I bellowed to the tiny veins and capillaries around her face, commanding them to swell even more. I saw her delicate, undulating throat and gripped on it tighter, shutting off more of her respiratory tract. However, as if she were hooked on some intravenous line to a bag of determination, she marched into the bright fluorescent lights, to those ridiculous minions in scrubs coloured a disgusting mucus green, to a syringe filled with epinephrine formulated to wrestle an invisible straitjacket on me, to tranquilise me until I’m powerless.

I don’t get it. I, Allison’s immune system, am just trying to look out for her, just want to ensure her safety. Apparently, though, if you were to ask her and those stupid doctors, --- those twats who cannot heal her as much as I can -- I should have never attacked those greasy peanuts on her dessert brownie. According to them, I’m overreacting by forcing her tissues to go on red alert against “food”, am the cause of disease as much as the one tasked to prevent it (Can you believe the audacity to say that?!). No, they don’t understand that like anyone giving life to a child, I take my job of protecting her as a matter of life and death, and that, well, Mother knows best.

They don’t understand that the day Allison’s chromosomes coded me to existence inside a uterus; I was given marching orders to defend the chubby cheeked, blue-eyed life I was encased in. The day I was formed inside my baby, I took up arms, vowing to shoot any microbe, any germ that threatened to invade her organs. The day she came out onto the world, I watched her like a sniper through the viewfinder on the top half of her head and couldn’t help smiling. She looked so peaceful, so docile, and so dependent on me. It was the most perfect time knowing this pink-skinned, gurgling organism wanted me to be its bodyguard, to take care of her like the woman who gave birth to her, and well, Mother knows best.

They don’t understand the sadness I felt the day of my little girl’s third birthday. As she broke into a smile when she blew those purple candles on her chocolate birthday cake, -– her choice (Ugh! I’d have preferred vanilla.)--- I throbbed as if some inexperienced surgical intern were performing a coronary bypass on me without anaesthesia. As she ran across the playground with all the power in her toddler hamstrings to the large sandbox (Eww! Germs!), I wanted to yell at Allison for choosing the risk of getting ill, for not choosing me. I couldn’t help pushing her skin to break out in scarlet bumps, to try with everything I am to get her to notice me.

To my surprise, once my baby girl’s birth giver saw the hives, she tsk-ed and blamed me, ME! Hey, Mama Immune System is just trying to do her job, and well, Mother knows best.

They don’t understand the needle-like sting of my Allison’s betrayal two months after she turned 11. Her birth giver (I know. How could she instigate this?) had asked my baby if she wanted to see some Dr. Pell. As my baby and the woman she called “Mum” got into their car, I had high hopes, to be honest. I thought that, obviously, someone who spent more than a decade learning about the human body would firmly explain to the pair that they need to let me be, to do my job of protecting my Allison. Oh no, instead, that quack demonised me and told my baby she will try to get me under control.

Immunotherapy! That twat in the white coat suggested therapy! Before I could even protest, Dr. Pell asked my Allison to stretch her arm out and scratched my baby with a tiny lancet to see how I attack, and then, scheduled the first session of what they called “desensitisation”. They wanted to weaken me, stop me from fully protecting that child I vowed to defend from the world; that doctor wanted my girl to forget that Mother knows best.

They don’t understand the desperation pumping in me whenever I’m supressed. The round of shots that quack injected into my Allison had stripped me of my ability to pounce on pollen and dust (NO!). Her puberty hormones had further rendered my efforts futile by nullifying my attacks on eggs (NO!). Through the viewfinder on her head, I saw her paint her lips a tacky crimson, ingest those barbecued prawns that disgusted me – observed her drift further and further away from what I wanted for my baby. Any tingle on her lips, any bump on her skin I pushed into her bloodstream, she combatted with bitter pills called antihistamines and a shrug of her delicate shoulders.

I had no choice but to become stricter, more ferocious. I wasn’t content anymore with commanding the production of red rashes; oh no, I started to grip her airway shut with all my might so that in her breathlessness, she’d come home to Mama. I spun furious circles around her to raise her blood pressure, to make her remember her heart is mine. Unfortunately, all it got me was staring at her through her head viewfinder as she employed more doctors to come between us, as she took stronger drugs, as she spat at me whenever I tried to convince her that Mother knows best.

Most of all, they don’t understand how much I love my Allison, that I want to protect my baby girl more than anything, that I desperately want her to comprehend that she’s mine…even if I have to resort to drastic measures, to "Anaphylaxis" (What a terrible name. Why does it sounds so...disease like?). It will always go over those quacks' heads that when I pull her throat shut, it’s me pulling on her heartstrings; that when I quicken her pulse, it’s me attempting to unite our heartbeats.

Then again, Allison doesn’t need to understand, does she? After all, I’m in her, she never escape me. She can block me all she wants and get as many doctors involved. She can put me in a corticortsoid straitjacket for all I care. I will always know best.