The Christmas cards are stacked against me

I’m not feeling the holiday spirit this year. Maybe it’s because the hospital almost killed me last month and still gifted me a $2k bill. Maybe it’s because my head is a ticking CSF leak time bomb and my neurologist says I will probably need brain surgery. Maybe it’s because my right kidney is still angry from last month’s contrast dye and throws a tantrum every time I drink water.

Or maybe it’s because Shutterfly sent me envelopes that smell like butt.

For the past decade, I’ve sent at least 50 Christmas cards each year. In the hospital, I swore I was taking this year off. However, a week later, I was invited to participate in a holiday card exchange for people with mast cell disease. I’m a sucker for fellow MCAS warriors, so I loaded up on steroids, put sweaters on my dogs, and trekked outside in the snow. The photos were adorable, so I ended up ordering 50 cards per usual.

As soon as my cards arrived in the mail, I set up my workshop: pens, stickers, and stamps. I was admiring my new cards, when it hit me. Not a chemical smell, nor a poop smell, but a foul butt smell. I put an envelope to my nose, and one whiff confirmed these envelopes had been stored in a sweaty butt warehouse for the past year. Unfortunately, by the time I moved them outside, my lungs were burning.

The only thing worse than getting sick from your own Christmas cards is getting all your chronically ill friends sick from your Christmas cards. I want to be known in the MCAS community as a great blogger, not the Christmas card killer. Again, I have ordered cards for over a decade, and I’ve never had this problem. Why this year?

Not even the Minnesota winter air could refresh the butt envelopes sitting on my patio. I waited two weeks for Shutterfly to send replacement envelopes. In past years, I would have been more patient. However, as a chronically ill person, I cannot crank out cards like I used to. Everything takes longer.

I considered sending the butt envelopes to my friends and family without mast cell disease anyway. I could just add “This is what my 2018 smelled like. Merry Christmas!” However, I usually I can smell things normal people can’t. So, my message would probably add further confusion and evidence that I am the most awkward person in their life.

As the Christmas deadline grew near, the pressure to finish my cards and my crabbiness increased. I began publicly proclaiming everyone would be receiving scent free deodorant for Christmas, because I am sick of trying and suffocating.

I was at the precipice of a Grinch-like meltdown, when I began receiving cards in my mailbox. Half of the cards came from cities I’ve never heard of, homes of other mast cell warriors. One of the cards contained a sticker that read, “Thank you for being.”

My shrunken kidney, two centimeters too small, did not grow when I read that, but I did feel a moment of comfort. The holidays have become painful reminders that everything is difficult or impossible for me: shopping, decorating, eating; socializing. The sticker gently reminded me I still matter, even if I can’t send Christmas cards on time anymore.

I considered putting an end to my shopping stress by just giving everyone on my list one of these stickers for Christmas. Then they would probably wish I had given them scent free deodorant. Holiday expectations are ridiculous.

I deserve all the gifts

HOLIDAY PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:

Do not use my illness as an excuse to not give me a gift!

In the first year of my diagnosis, holidays were sad and lonely. On my birthday, I received only one card and no visitors. I couldn’t figure out why everyone would let me down on the hardest year of my life. “I don’t want to make you sick,” they said. “I don’t know what you’re not allergic to.”

I cried and accepted my fate. My disease was too complicated to understand. Gifts were just another casualty of my illness.

…until this year, when I created a new support system of compassionate and somewhat quirky friends (more on that later (you can do this too!))…

…and they gave me ALL THE GIFTS.

The smorgasbord I received after surgery this year

This year, my friends lavished me with mast cell friendly gifts: Fiji water, Vanicream, books, homemade food, and even dog poop bags! I literally broke out in hives at their generosity (and that’s okay!). They cared enough to get to know me and the challenges I face each day. They taught me I am deserving not only of gifts, but loving friends.

Now I know we can’t all be as generous as my friends. But truly anyone can give and receive a gift. Some of my most cherished gifts are handmade cards telling me I’m a badass. A little thoughtfulness goes a long way and when in doubt, just ask! It’s really that simple.

In case you missed it last year, check out my gift guide for mast cell disease.

Happy gifting!

P.S. I’ve created a store for my blog! Check out these great mast cell gift ideas. All proceeds go towards my blogging costs – thank you for your support!

Third grade Valentine’s Day lessons

My best Valentine’s Day memories are not romantic. In fact, my fondest memory was the result of a lot of puke. In third grade, I woke up with the flu on Valentine’s Day. I tried to get ready for school anyway, determined to pass out the valentines I painstakingly crafted the night before, but I vomit-blasted the hallway with such ferocity that I quickly retreated back to bed. All day, I lay in bed, brokenhearted and feverish, with only an empty bucket to console me. (Okay, I’m pretty sure my mom was around too, but we remember what we feel, even if it is a little dramatic.) My valentine mailbox, a shoebox covered in construction paper, sat empty on my dresser.

That day I learned:

How to control vomit
Sometimes illness forces you to stay home, no matter what day it is
Valentine’s Day sucks when you’re all alone

Then, at 3:30, the doorbell rang. I heard my mom invite the visitor inside. A few seconds later, my bedroom door opened. My third grade teacher entered the room.

“AHHHHH, she in my house!” I thought, sitting in my pajamas, but feeling completely naked. “She is breaking the rules! How did she find me?”

“I brought you this,” she said, handing me a shoebox covered with red and pink hearts. “I hope you feel better soon.”

After she left and I recovered from the realization that teachers can leave school, I opened the box. Inside were 22 handcrafted valentines from my classmates, and one from my teacher.

I wish you a healthy Valentine’s Day, full of thoughtful surprises. And if that’s not possible, please don’t wait for your third grade teacher to show up at your door. Sometimes self-care is the best valentine of all.