I realize that the purpose of blogging is to post. Frequently. To those of you who have been patiently following along, thank you for understanding that for the past two weeks I’ve been diverted playing tour guide to a lovely young lady from Taiwan. But, as promised, I wanted to share all of the steps I took to ensure (to the best extent possible) my daughter’s safety on the other side of the world. So, without further ado, here is:

Step 2:  The Medical Bracelet

How do you say ‘anaphylaxis’ in Chinese? I can’t tell you. But while specific culinary and medical terminology may not be top priority in the elementary Chinese curriculum at my daughter’s school, a medical bracelet is an absolute must to fill in gaps in communication. Not only would the bracelet help remind my daughter to speak up for herself, but my hope was that it would help her understand the life-saving benefits of a written message, one she could show to street vendors, bakers, restaurant waiters and even new friends as back up when words might get lost in translation.

I was happy to find two companies that can customize medical bracelets with any symbol, accent or, in our case, traditional Chinese character. Both based in California, RoadID and YikesID came to our rescue, but for different reasons. RoadID was recommended for its fail-proof bracelet–a single piece of silicone with a metal safety clasp, minimizing any risk of the band falling off. This was important to me as I staved off images of this bracelet (or, rather, lifeline) falling off and getting lost. Since I had already informed my child that the bracelet had to stay strapped on from the moment she boarded the plane until the moment she got home, this seemed like an excellent option.

I knew going into the bracelet-making process that it would be a huge ask of any American company to provide correctly etched Chinese characters on a plate. Thanks to some insight from an experienced mother, though, YikesID excelled in providing highly legible bracelet plates that could be slipped onto the more secure silicone bands made by RoadID.

This was a crucial step for us to take to ensure messaging was crystal clear. Unlike medical forms we fill out here in the U.S., we could not throw a blanket over terminology and simply state “tree nuts” or “seeds.” Every allergen had to be listed as specifically as possible, sending me on a Google bender to track down every species of nut and seed known to man. Given that the bracelet plate was all of an inch-and-a-half by three-quarters of an inch, we faced the prospect of filling three plates. No way would my kid agree to wear three bracelets, when one in her opinion would bring enough attention to her. So much for being subtle.

In order to craft the most impactful message, we enlisted one of our favorite Chinese teachers to translate and edit the list down to the essentials. It took a few rounds, but we managed to pull together a message that roughly translated as: “I cannot eat peanut, almond, cashew, walnut, pine nut, chestnut, sesame, sunflower seed or I will stop breathing and require immediate medical treatment.” It was one of my hardest edit jobs. Do you cut out hazelnuts? What if there’s a special stir-fry that uses them? What about pine nuts? They are in everything. Pistachio…well, if they go out for ice cream, she runs a risk of getting that… I finally had to entrust myself to the teacher who knew Taiwan well and hope that those who would interact with my daughter would glean the basic message. No nuts. No seeds.

Two weeks later, five bracelets arrived (yes, five. I had become a proponent of over-preparedness by this point) with fetching pink and purple silicone bands. (The child needed wardrobe options, and if she had to wear the bracelet 24/7,  I may as well let her have some fun.) It gave me enormous peace of mind, especially when I learned and saw on the school’s blog that my daughter actually kept the bracelet on and used it to facilitate conversations with local vendors in Taiwan’s Night Market.

Since her trip, I have come across the adorable, brightly colored slip-on Allerbling bracelet. Working like a charm bracelet for those among us who are still working on our fine motor skills, the Allerbling is a fun way for younger kids to take some ownership of their allergies. While the images of the allergens are pretty cute, they proved a little juvenile and audacious (read: not cool) for my 10-year-old. The one graphic I was allowed to include was a small international medical symbol, just to drive home the point that this bracelet meant business.

Up Next…Step 3: Words To Live By (Additional Communication Tools)

 

…and, I’m happy to report, all ten Epi-Pens returned unused and untouched. I don’t think there is even a trace of a fingerprint to chronicle so much as a remote curiosity among the adults who hosted or chaperoned my child. Her first true adventure (without the hazards that come with an anxious mom in the wings) came to a happy, uneventful conclusion. No scratchy throat, no puffy lips, no rash and, thankfully, no anaphylaxis.

But I won’t lie. My adventurous spirit (or the dark side of my imagination) was just a little bit disappointed that I did not get to take the heroic flight across the Pacific to attend to my child who would be hospitalized undoubtedly for ingesting a sesame seed. I sat on edge for the duration of her two-week trip, ready for that phone call that would summon me to the rescue.

After all the preparations–the worrying, the spiraling anticipation, the crazy Skype calls to Taipei whereby I detailed (with much animation) the administration of loratadine and epinephrine, and the stream of irrational scenarios that played out silently in my mind for months–nothing happened. I felt foolish for over-preparing for what I had written off as inevitable. So let’s call the conclusion of her trip a blissful anticlimax. And leave it at that.

But the truth is, for many parents of food-allergic kids, the mind spirals because we have to be at the ready constantly. There is no room to let your guard down. Anytime you get a call from the school, your heart jolts because you assume that call is from the school nurse telling you to head to the hospital because your child has gone into anaphylaxis and is en route in an ambulance.

So call us crazy. Yes, our minds spiral. We (over)prepare for any and every possible scenario because we have to. Over the last few weeks since my daughter returned from her trip, many of you asked what I did to prepare her and her host family for the “inevitable.” I took those questions as an opportunity to step away from the emotional component of being a parent of a kid with food allergies, and offer up a little practical information. Starting this week, I will share the steps I took to prepare and send my peanut/tree nut/seed allergic daughter to Asia. Consider this:

A Field Guide to Traveling Anywhere More Than 50 Miles Away From Mom

Step 1: The Emergency Kit

I went a little crazy and stocked up on these. But as I rationalized, if you’re going to send ten Epi-Pens, you might as well go the whole nine yards and own your crazy. Owing in large part to the sage advice of parents whose kids had attended the program in prior years, I wanted my daughter, her host mom, and her teacher chaperone each to have a kit. The extras were back-up in the event of theft or natural disaster.

By design, the packs I bought were an obnoxious bright red with large white crosses emblazoned on the front of the pack. All those Epi-Pens needed housing and I was feeling the obnoxiousness of the red packaging. So I selected the top sellers from Amazon, buying two SadoMedcare First Aid kits, three Smallest and Lightest First Aid Kits (yep, that is the actual brand name, but which turned out to be my favorite for its compactness), and two Verco hard-shell kits just to add a little variety in texture.

Removing the guts of each kit was a little chaotic as piles of gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, bandages, cool packs, hot packs and scary looking sewing kits took over my dining room table. Pausing to look at all of the medical essentials suddenly made the trip very, very real. It was a sobering moment understanding that I was acquiescing to this, and entrusting my child to strangers.

Into each now-empty kit, I packed:

Two Epi-Pens (always have a back-up in case a child requires a follow-up dose within 10 minutes of the first dose)

24 Alavert dissolvable (10 mg) tablets of loratadine (for lesser reactions such as tingling on the tongue, mildly itchy ear canals and throat)

A dozen Band-Aids (There will be blood. Cover and protect the injection site)

Sterile handi-wipes

A small space blanket (I know this sounds strange, but if a child goes into shock after getting injected with an Epi-Pen, the blanket will keep him or her warm until an EMT  arrives)

A copy of my daughter’s Action Plan (more on that later) in traditional Chinese

While I generally eschew any kind of charm, lapel button or bumper sticker announcing one’s opinion or political position, I couldn’t resist adding a little bling to each kit with these zipper charms. The effect was nothing short of darling.

Next post….The Medical Bracelet

In less than 24 hours, my daughter will be returning home through the Arrivals terminal at SFO, most likely a changed person. She has had an incredible two weeks living with a family who took her in as one of their own. They took her to visit all of the amazing sites of Taipei and its environs, and embraced her for who she is, making sure that every meal was safe, safe, safe for her. Photo accounts from the host mom made me feel more and more grateful each day that my daughter was in the best of hands.

And while I have anticipated a tearful, clutching reunion whereby mother and daughter can’t let go of one another, I have a feeling now that tomorrow night’s reunion will be a little cooler than I would have thought when we stayed until the last possible moment, waving our farewells through the glass dividers at SFO’s International Terminal until we couldn’t see each other anymore two weeks ago.

What started as a sojourn filled with the expected tears and fears of homesickness quickly morphed (and by that, I mean a grand total of 48 hours…) into an adventure where any documentation of her journey had to be supplied by the adults around her, namely her amazing host mom and her teacher chaperone. Both women are forever heroes in my book, simply for letting me know that my child was alive and (beyond) well, and that she was eating safely and embracing the culture of Taiwan. The very idea of sending me so much as a postcard, let alone a one-line text, is apparently passé. My child was just “too busy having a good time.”

Waves of guilt have entered my conscience as I now understand what my mom went through 20+ years ago when I left home for remote parts of the universe with so little regard for her feelings. I suppose what goes around, comes around.

I can’t say that I blame my child for her reticence to return home. Just look at these images of the adorable meals she’s been enjoying in Taipei this week. Ice in the shape of teddy bears? Rice dishes spooned into insipidly cute characters? Are you kidding me? It’s like the good people at Sanrio have thrown down the gauntlet, questioning my child’s allegiance to her country. If I was 10 years old and knew I could dine among such insipid cuteness, I too would defect.

Tomorrow’s return to the U.S. could be likened to the atmospheric re-entry of astronauts after they’ve touched the moon or lived on the space station. It may be anti-climactic, a return to normalcy, but for certain it won’t go smoothly. So long as she arrives alive and well with her medical bracelet still attached to her wrist, I know she is on the path to self-advocacy. A food-allergy mom couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

 

 

I have a confession to make. While my daughter has been enjoying her time in Asia with each passing day, I have been secretly indulging in the foods that could hospitalize her. Well, “gorging” is probably a better verb. Of all the food cravings/weaknesses/obsessions to have, mine is peanut butter. Who knew that one day I would have a child who cannot eat the one thing that truly makes me a better person?

As many of you know, I’ve been on a soapbox with our school and my daughter’s host family to ensure her safety and well-being for months now. The school administration and half the faculty avert their eyes whenever I walk through the hallways. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy: I’ve become an allergy evangelist. Every time there is a celebration involving food, I immediately email the parent community to find out who has an allergy and how we can accommodate it. And here I am, not unlike many evangelists, a complete and utter hypocrite.

For the record, I have accomplices and will name names, specifically citing my husband and my 6-year-old son. In the last week, I have made more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than God has green apples, seared tuna with toasted sesame seeds, ordered sushi without mentioning any allergies to waiters, warmed macadamia nuts to accompany the much-needed Martinis, added almond milk AND almond butter to my morning smoothies and pine nuts to pasta dishes, and cleared cartons of Haagen Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream–all without so much as a quick swipe of the sponge after cooking. While guilt-inducing, this new (albeit temporary) method of cooking has been nothing short of liberating. We have thrown caution to the wind, and my daughter has only been gone for 11 days. Wait until the college years, for by then we may own a pecan farm.

My conscience is polarized. I am a terrible person for eating the foods that are medically forbidden to my daughter despite the fact that she is thousands of miles away and most likely won’t have a reaction to my debauchery. But I am also giddy at the thought that I can serve whatever my son wants without editing a recipe or adapting a menu for the first time since I became a mom almost 11 years ago. A pathetic and silly statement that may be, but it’s a real, emotional tug-of-war.

So the question begs asking: At what point is a parent of a food-allergic child allowed to ensure the well-being and happiness of their other children who don’t have allergies? Is it OK to make allowances for that sibling (who ironically inherited my proclivity for chocolate-peanut butter milkshakes) when the proverbial cat is away?

 

We are now half-way through my daughter’s adventures in Taiwan, and I am happy to report there have been no allergic reactions! A few teary phone calls during the first two days were to be expected, but we have now reached the apex of the trip and my daughter is all smiles, painting lanterns with her host family, sampling tea at a local tea garden, bargaining with street vendors to purchase fruit, and sampling the world-renowned dumplings at Din Tai Fung. At least that is what the pictures are telling me.

It is astounding how, in the course of seven days, my chatty child’s correspondence has devolved into a series of monosyllabic responses to my stream of questioning. In all my years interviewing people for magazine articles, she is quickly becoming my most challenging interviewee to date. You know your child is having a great time on the other side of the planet when your conversations becomes wholly unsatisfactory.

“How was the first day at school?”

“OK.”

“What did you do today? Were you in class with your host sister? “

“Yes.”

“Do you want to schedule a FaceTime call with us? When is a good time?”

“OK.”

“How are you getting to school?”

“I walk.”

“Walk with your host sister?  That must be fun!

What a cool way to start the day. How long does it take?”

“I’m tired. Good night, Mommy.”

If I could shake that child from 6,600 miles away for details, I would.

It was my daughter’s host mom who came to the rescue and helped fill in the blanks about her first few days in Taipei. During this tumultuous time, she emailed me expressing concern that my child wasn’t eating very much. The first photo was of my daughter’s first breakfast of ham, egg and bun. Wow, I thought. How thoughtful and Westernized. Another photo from that first day showed a cute picture of my daughter with her new friend and host sister alongside a barbecued chicken–a whole chicken, right down to the head and feet. I chuckled to myself remembering that I had forgotten to tell my daughter about some of the culinary customs in Asia. Oh well! She’s got to find out some things on her own. This cultural exchange, I thought, is off to a fantastic start.

The next day, the host mom emailed me a photo of the carefully composed lunch of bok choi, sausage and white rice that she lovingly made and packed for my child. But she was disheartened to see that only the vegetables were eaten. We both surmised that my daughter was still jet-lagged and a little nervous. It was only day #2, so I encouraged the mom to give her a few days for the tummy to settle down and that my child would surely start to eat her usual balanced diet, cleaning her plate as she does at home.

By Wednesday, I received another email continuing to express concern that my child was not eating well. Our ever-patient host mom reported that “Maybe the cooking style of meat is not for her. She ate a flour cake and some fruit for breakfast, and for lunch she didn’t finish the rice and bean cake…I am worried she doesn’t get used to the lunch I prepared. But she liked the desserts and finished a cupcake quickly this afternoon.”

My face burned with embarrassment. This woman was going beyond the call of duty to make delicious, healthy fresh lunches every day for my American kid with food allergies. And my kid was turning up her delicate nose to new food. It was nothing short of a cultural affront. If she could manage to get a chocolate cupcake down, her tummy must be just fine. I would not stand for it. It was enough that we had put this mom through the ringer sending her oodles of information about Epi-Pens, a detailed action plan in Chinese, and an enormous box of “just-in-case” foods. But I drew the line at allowing my child half-way around the world to be a picky kid on top of all of that.

I fumed silently as I thought of all those stupid styrofoam boxes of instant noodles I had packed and shipped off as back-up. I considered taking the exorbitant shipping cost out of my daughter’s allowance for the next 10 years. And then I did the only thing I had the power to do from the other side of the world. I texted my child insisting on a live FaceTime call. “We need to talk ASAP.”

At 5AM the next morning, I found myself patiently watching and listening to my daughter go on and on about their excursions to the Confucius Temple, the Kuo Yuan Ye Museum of Cake and Pastry (where she was able to try the cakes despite being told she’s have to bring along a granola bar and abstain from the samples), and the Yang Ming Mountain National Park. My anger and frustration subsided just enough to observe how happy and confident she looked and sounded. So I let go of the lecture I was about to unload on her. She is only 10 after all, and she’s only been in this foreign country for 5 days.

When she was done with her detailed accounts (finally got those details I had been craving…), I thanked her for sharing. Then as gently as I could, I asked her how her tummy was feeling. “It’s OK.” Ugh. Dead-end. “OK, well, um, your host mom is a little worried that you aren’t eating enough. I understand that she’s been making you good lunches, but you aren’t eating much. She also said that you were eating dessert. So I’m guessing your tummy must be feeling better?”

Radio silence. OK, calling out your kid is probably not the best way to start a conversation. But I forged on with my diatribe: “I know some things look very different to what you eat at home, but you need to try everything, at least one bite. It is considered so rude if you don’t. Your host mom is busting her hump to make safe, good food, but you have to meet her halfway and at least try it, OK?”

“OK,” she replied sullenly.

This was not going well. I had popped her bubble of effusiveness and confidence. Caught between wanting to hug my kid and tell her that I was so proud of her for taking this adventure, and wanting to yell at her to get over her rudeness, I wondered how much of a  mom I really needed to be in this moment. And then I heard myself say it: “If I have to tell your host mom not to let you have dessert if you don’t eat your dinner, I will. I have that power, even from 6,000 miles away. Don’t push me, kiddo.” Not my proudest moment.

We said our goodbyes. I spent the rest of the day reliving that FaceTime call wondering how I could have handled the situation better. She’s just a kid! She’s still getting over her nerves. But no! She’s an ambassador of this country, and she needs to try everything. Her host mom is working so hard for her! She is not going to be that ugly American kid, not if I can help it.

Several hours later, I received two messages–one from my daughter and a picture from her host mom of the most gorgeous udon noodles I’ve ever seen. I was impressed by the mom’s culinary chops and will one day get the nerve to ask her for the recipe. But it was my daughter’s message that warmed my heart: “Today’s dinner was SUPER good.”

Whew. Cross-cultural relations still intact, even with precious little details.

 

*Photos courtesy of Linda Chen, host mom extraordinaire!

Since my first post, several friends have checked in asking how my daughter’s trip was and wondered why I included a picture of a box of snack foods. I’ll answer these in order…

My daughter has safely landed in Taipei after an “amazing trip” aboard EVA Airlines. Shortly before departure, there were a lot of tears. We tried desperately to buoy her spirits by showing her the list of amenities she would be enjoying for the next 14 hours, including an encyclopedic list of movies (Star Wars! The Chipmunks! The Good Dinosaur!) and video games with which she could burn out her eyes. Between the tears and sniffles, we spotted an advertisement for the (hallelujah!) first-ever Hello Kitty Flight. A nose-to-tail confection of cuteness, this specially designed aircraft boasts oversized illustrations of the famous feline and her insipid sidekicks on the hull. Even the interior of the plane is pink. I silently thanked EVA Airlines for the distraction although sadly, it would not be the plane carrying my daughter and her 47 classmates across the Pacific. Luck was not on our side. So, turning to bribery, we made vague promises that if all goes well this trip, we could return to Taiwan someday on the Hello Kitty flight. It was anything I could do to get my child–now 20 minutes late to get the airport–into the (enter favorite expletive here) car.

But in all seriousness, it wasn’t just anticipated homesickness that delayed getting my daughter to the airport. We had some packing stress around the one carry-on she would be allowed. As the airline could not guarantee the safety of their meals for the five food allergic kids on the school trip, we were all instructed to pack food for the flight. Estimating that she would need enough food for two meals at least, plus snacks, I packed two containers of dried Cup-A-Noodles (not a peep out of any of you judgmental foodies…), Don’t Go Nuts granola bars, dried fruit and turkey jerky, Goldfish crackers and some fresh fruit that I told her to finish before deplaning in Taipei.

Cramming all of this into her backpack was nothing short of frustration. Finally after we managed to artfully wedge the two stuffed animals she insisted on flying with her around all of the food, and ditching the change of clothes the school recommended that she carry aboard, we got the carry-on zipped up and ready to go. And that’s when the real tears began. Unrelated to the trip, these were the tears of a kid sick and tired of having food allergies and having to make special accommodations all the time. All I could do was hug her, remind her that there would be more to this trip than food, that she could watch however many movies she wanted to on the plane, and that, oh yeah, I snuck in a few treats she wouldn’t have to share with anyone.

Flashback to two weeks beforehand…and I am on my hands and knees in the FedEx store arranging an enormous box of food (evidenced in the photo above) that would be shipped to my daughter’s host family. The very act of putting this box together went against my wanderlust soul that when one is in another country, you delight in the adventures of trying the local food. Raised by parents who enjoyed travel and food, and who thumbed their noses at family friends who packed peanut butter for trips to Spain for their spoiled daughter, I cringed at what I was about to do. But with a food allergic kid, as many of you know, you can’t always do as the Romans do when in Rome.

At the advice of some seasoned parents whose food-allergic children had gone on the program in prior years, I composed a box of food that would provide our Taiwanese host mom–angel that she is–with items she could use to pack lunches for my daughter or to substitute as treats when visiting local bakeries and street markets. In the only way I seem to know, I overbought. By about 25 pounds. I had more varieties of food than days that my daughter would be on solid ground. And how much did that cost to send? Let’s just say the nice guys at the FedEx store REALLY like me.

Four days later I received a terse email from one Ms. Jennie Chan in the central FedEx offices of Taiwan. The package had clearly arrived and was most likely the hot topic around the water cooler. I could picture it now: “Classic ugly American doesn’t trust the food in Asia, so she has to send a care package for her snotty kid. Did you see the crap she packed? What the hell is ‘pizza snack mix’ anyway?”

According to Ms. Chan, I had not provided sufficient information for the “commercial invoice” that would clear my box through Taiwanese customs. “What do you mean by ‘commercial’?” I fired back. “This food is for my daughter who has a SEVERE medical condition of food allergies and I wanted to provide safe food to the family she will be staying with! I am not selling these goods! Please explain ASAP!” In hindsight, the delivery of my message could have been more diplomatic.

Within an hour, she calmly replied that the term “commercial invoice” had just been lost in translation. Customs simply needed a more detailed itemization of the contents. And by details, they needed to know actual brand names, net weight (in grams, of course) and the price per unit. Couldn’t they just look through the box and read the labels themselves? Surely they had already opened it? Was I missing something? Was this the bureaucratic equivalent of a practical joke? The contents are right there, people. Unopened packages of clearly labeled, store-bought food. All the details are right in front of you. What more do you need?

I withheld the urge to state what seemed the obvious. Instead, I fumed my way through the head-banging exercise of Googling every single blessed snack I had packed, zooming in on images to quote the exact weight of each item, right down to the individual granola bars.  As I did, I began to feel a frustration I think is akin to what my daughter would feel two weeks later on the day of her departure. Tears welled and then sprang. It wasn’t the Taiwanese customs agents who were the straws to break this camel’s back–although they didn’t make life any easier. I was sick and tired of bending over backwards to accommodate a world that could not accommodate my child. That frustration, however childish or irrational it may be, is a very real emotion–just all too often it gets lost in translation.

The box cleared customs within a day, and the woman who is now taking care of my child for the next few weeks is truly a wonderful, caring mom. She is a saint who will get a taste of the painstaking efforts any of us take daily to keep our food allergic kids safe. I would not wish upon her any of this, and she is taking it on with grace and thoughtfulness. In just the last few days, she has posted pictures to FaceBook of the amazing foods she is sharing with and making for my child. I will be eternally grateful to her. For I know my child will be safe, have fun and learn about a new culture in so many ways.

Even if she can’t eat the sesame balls.