Beyond the Interview
Like millions of others in the United States (and around the world) in the past year, I was laid off from my job. It was quite a shock after working for the same company for more than thirteen years. Still, I am not one to sit around doing nothing and whine. So, I quickly dusted myself off and picked myself up to start my job search. After five grueling months of combing career web sites, soliciting my professional and personal network, and submitting resumes, I, at long last, made it to a third round of interviews at company X.
For most people, job interviews are one of the most stressful events they ever have to go through. For me, I had an added stress – a lunch hour in the middle of the session. Yes, here I was interviewing with 10 people over the course of about 4 hours and my greatest concern was not the dreaded “what are you weaknesses” or “tell me about the time you had a conflict with someone and how you resolved it”. Nope. My brain was churning about what would happen at lunch.
It was beyond how I might make pleasant conversation with a total stranger while having food stuck between my teeth. No, I was mulling the possibilities of where the lunch might take place, how I would not look like a freak to my potential employer if I brought my own lunch wherever we were going, and how I would quickly and easily explain my allergies so I didn’t scare them out of continuing to consider me.
All kinds of scenarios played through my head the night before. I imagined having to go to a “cool Thai place”, with my new potential manager raving about the “awesome peanut sauce” they have on just about everything. I was certain that would be big black mark against me if I turned it down. People want someone on their team that they can have fun with outside of the regular workload; not someone that could drop dead at their favorite lunchtime hangout.
So, I went with my standard lunch in-hand – a pita with meat and cheese that I’d made in the hotel room that morning. Instead of having lunch with my potential manager and going to a restaurant, I was having lunch with two of my potential co-workers and we were going to the company café instead. I was getting a meal ticket to get whatever I wanted. Brilliant!
On the walk over, I enjoyed the casual conversation, wondering if I should, at some point, let them know about my allergies. I didn’t want to make a big deal about them, but I knew I’d have to explain at some point. I decided to wait until we were sitting together at the table, when my pita was there in front of me for all to see.
I navigated the café, looking for some good sides. I found chips, fruit, and a soda. Surely this wouldn’t seem too freakish. I noticed a great array of choices in general and, for a few brief moments, I actually contemplated asking for the manager to see if I could possibly order something. It all looked so good. I chickened out…deciding that I’d better not risk anaphylactic shock during my afternoon interviews.
I was the first to the agreed-to-table, so I sat down and started eating, figuring I’d be interviewed when the two sat down. When Bob* sat down with his tray, I immediately saw that look on his face. I’d seen it before. It was the “why didn’t she get more food?” look, after glancing at what was in front of me. I knew I’d have to explain the pita in the Ziploc baggie.
“I have some bad food allergies, “I said.
“Oh? Are you allergic to peanuts too?” he asked.
That’s when my jaw dropped open. Not only did the job, the company, and the team seem great, but someone had the same allergy as me? No one would think I was unusual, weird, or otherwise abnormal? This was uncharted territory. And it got better after I told him I was allergic to peanuts, as well as tree nuts:
“The café is great. They put allergens in red on the menus every day.”
Was that trumpets I was hearing playing? And angels singing?
That’s when I knew for sure this was the job for me.
And, luckily, I got it.
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A Perky Problem
Everyone loves perks, right? If you work for an airline, you might get hugely-discounted or perhaps free flights. If you work at a radio station, you could score concert tickets or get to attend movie premieres. Work at a department store and you have that great employee discount on everything. Well, I have a problem with one perk that’s fairly common no matter where you work – free food.
My problem isn’t that I usually can’t eat the free food (often continental breakfasts of nut-filled muffins or nut-topped donuts or someone’s home-baked peanut butter cookies). My problem is with the reaction I get from co-workers when I decline the free food without going into the long explanation of how it could kill me. It usually goes something like this:
“Hi Kyla,” he greets me when I enter the meeting room, “Grab some food and take a seat. We’ll be starting in a few minutes when more people are here.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I already ate, “I tell them (the honest-to-goodness truth), as I sit down.
“Are you sure? There are sandwiches and the cookies are great!” she tells me.
“I’m sure. Thanks.”
“You’re not hungry?” she asks, incredulously.
“I already ate.”
“Oh, but you don’t at least want to take a cookie or two? Maybe one of the brownies?”
“No, really, I’m fine, thanks.”
If that was the end of it, I might be able to leave it at that, but it usually isn’t. It’s the old “look” from one person to another. I have heard what they think and say to each other. People have told me. It’s either one or the other of these and sometimes both:
- “She must be anorexic. She never eats the food in our meetings and she’s skinny.”
- “What’s her problem? It’s free food. Everyone eats food when it’s free!”
What’s a fit gal with a life-threatening food allergy to do? Well, even though I’m not big on getting personal with everyone I come in contact with, I now let the conversation take a different course. It goes something like this:
“Hi Kyla,” he greets me when I enter the meeting room, “Grab some food and take a seat. We’ll be starting in a few minutes when more people are here.”
“Thanks, but I have really bad food allergies, so I can’t. I brought my own stuff though.”
“Oh that’s too bad. There are sandwiches and the cookie are great!” she tells me.
“They look great, but they could kill me so I’d better not. I think you want me to survive the meeting, so you don’t have to take over my action items.”
Then, I promptly dig into my own food to satisfy anyone who has the other reaction to my free food rejection.
Who knew to what lengths you might have to go to protect your reputation when you have something as straight-forward as a food allergy? Never did I think I’d be thought of so negatively by simply passing on a perk. Luckily, I’m not allergic to money or vacations.
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Reaction to a Reaction
I remember the day of my first full-blown allergic reaction as clear as it happened yesterday. It was fifteen minutes into gym class and I was paired with a very cologned sixteen year old boy for the waltz. I thought I was coughing and gasping for air because my dance partner had evidently bathed in Polo before coming to school that day. Unfortunately, that was not the problem.
I asked my gym teacher, Ms. Simpson, if I could go into the hall to get some water. Not only did she let me, but she followed close behind. After taking a few gulps from the fountain, I continued to try to clear my throat and found it nearly impossible.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Ms. Simpson asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering why she was asking.
“I think you’d better come take a look at your face,” she advised, leading me into her office.
As I gazed at my own reflection in the mirror of her locker door, I saw the evidence to support my developing theory about what was going on. My eyes were swollen. I then looked down and saw hives on my arms. I was in trouble. I was in big trouble. I was going to die.
“I think I need to go to the hospital,” I told Ms. Simpson, “I’m having an anaphylactic reaction.”
Ms. Simpson grabbed my right arm in a desperate grip. It hurt, but I didn’t say anything. I was just trying to keep breathing, as my airway continued to constrict. With her other hand, she picked up the phone and hit “0”.
“I have an emergency down here! A student’s in anaphylactic shock. We have to get her to the hospital. I’m bringing her upstairs right now.”
The next thing I knew, Ms. Simpson was dragging me down the hall.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I learned how to do an emergency tracheotomy in a first aid class. I have a Swiss Army knife on my keychain here and a pen in my pocket.”
Somehow that didn’t make me feel any better.
Moments later, I was whisked to the back of the high school office. I looked around, trying to take in as much as I could since – thanks to my unfortunate circumstances – I was getting a privileged tour of a part of the school students never get to see. I marveled at the teachers’ lounge espresso machine and the 4-slice toaster. I envisioned Mr. Ramsey brewing a cup of the potent java before our 8am social studies class and Miss Milton making her morning bagel. Surely, the declining oxygen getting to my brain was making me a bit loopy.
“These’ll get you to the hospital, “Vice-Principal Watson announced, shaking his keys out in front of me like he was expecting me to drive myself.
After zipping up his ski jacket, he took over the grip on my arm when Ms. Simpson let go.
“Don’t die, ok?” she said, moving close and looking straight into my eyes.
It was like she was saying those words to the alien creature deep inside that had turned against me. Automatically, I shook my head from side-to-side. My parents had taught me to respect authority and I wasn’t about to be remembered as some kind of rebel.
Initially, I was relieved that Mr. Watson was driving me to get help. It would avoid the embarrassing attention being hauled away in an ambulance could bring a teenager. As he careened in and out of traffic with random horn honking to alert other motorists to get out of the way, I decided that professionals might have been the way to go. I clung onto the edge of the seat and shivered, as no one had thought to lend me a coat in the chaos…despite it being a frigid ten below zero that winter day and I was still in my gym shorts. Instead of my short sixteen-year-old life flashing before my eyes, I saw images of the pick-up truck smashing through the front window of the 7-Eleven or wrapped and into a little old lady’s cute little green Volkswagen bug. I dug my fingernails into the worn black leather seat and had only one thought – I’m going to die before I even get to the hospital.
That’s about all I remember before seeing my Dad’s face come around the emergency room curtain, as I was feeling the air coming back into my lungs more easily.
The cause of my afternoon adventure? Cross contamination in the school cafeteria. The knife that had cut my grilled cheese sandwich had cut a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and hadn’t been properly cleaned.
That reaction was my wake-up call in many ways. First, it led to me finally getting and carrying an Epipen wherever I went (I still can’t believe that neither my allergist or family doctor suggested it). Second, I became aware of cross-contamination. Until then, I had lived with the notion that I only had to avoid foods containing peanuts or tree nuts. Finally, I learned the most valuable lesson of all – that I alone was responsible for keeping myself alive. I was the one who would have to ask and check before eating, to check if other menu items could cause problems, and to know what to do if I found myself struggling to breathe. Lessons learned – never forgotten.
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Best of the Banquet
Company Christmas party. Those three words put fear into many otherwise happy-go-lucky folks just because of the social challenges, like trying to not get drunk in front of the boss and because your significant other usually wants nothing to do with the whole shindig. Now, add to that a peanut and tree nut allergy and you have the makings of a borderline catastrophic event.
The very first such occasion I faced in my working life was actually much more pleasant that I ever could have imagined. First, I had a wonderful boyfriend (now my husband) accompany me and he was more than willing to go out to a free dinner at a fancy hotel downtown. He was still a student. J Check. Second, I wasn’t and still am not much of a drinker. No worries about falling down in front of Daryl or Stan. I was on a roll.
I then took my allergies as far into my own hands as I could. I contacted the chef, in advance, to tell him about both the nasty allergens I had to avoid and the seriousness of the whole situation. When I got to the event that night, I met with the chef and confirmed everything. He gave me complete assurances that the entire meal would be safe for me, explaining how my food would be specially-prepared from the other food and how they understood the perils of cross-contamination. I was overjoyed.
The thrilling part came when we all actually sat down to dinner – usually something I dread more than anything. As the first course of salads came around, a waiter brought my special plate that didn’t look a lot different that others’ plates, but it lacked dressing and nuts on top. A good sign. I happily munched away. The main course was a choice of chicken or beef. I got beef and some wonderful whipped potatoes, and steamed vegetables – all hot and delicious.
“How did you get such a great meal, Kyla?” our controller, Diana, asked me, picking less-than-enthusiastically at her chicken dish.
“Oh, I have bad food allergies. They made my meal separately so it’s safe for me.” I explained.
Diana raised her eyebrows and continued to force-feed herself the rubber chicken.
Dessert came next, which is something I usually completely avoid, but the chef had assured me that dessert was safe too. They brought me a bowl of vanilla ice cream and berries – fresh strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. I was in heaven.
“Look at this!” my co-worker Mark pointed at my dish, “I’m coming to next year’s party with a peanut allergy!”
My entire meal was completely safe, incredibly good, and made me feel better than I ever had because it clearly was the best of the banquet. I was used to people feeling sorry for me about what I couldn’t eat. This time, however, people were jealous of me and what I got to eat. It was a night I’ll never forget.
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Luck of the Irish
A few years ago, I went on my first trip outside North America. Pretty sad when you learn that I’m in my late 30s, but sadder still when I tell you my honest confession of why travel had been so rare. I had avoided international travel simply out of fear of how I’d survive with my peanut and tree nut allergies.
Luckily, my first trip abroad was a good place to start – the English-speaking country of Ireland. Ok, so some might argue that they don’t exactly speak English there, but it was close enough for me. Having worked via phone with several people at my company’s office in Dublin for months before, I was sure I could cope.
I was determined to not eat every meal at McDonald’s – the standard, familiar, and usually safe arches abroad for those with peanut and tree nut allergies. After venturing out to a non-chain Italian restaurant one night and a traditional Irish fare location on another night without incident, I was feeling pretty calm and comfortable when it came to making my way through Dublin eateries. I had decided that this international traveling thing wasn’t nearly as scary as I had thought.
Enter that fourth fateful night. We had been meandering through stores on the Thursday evening – the only night for late-night (beyond 5pm) shopping. We were hungry and didn’t feel like going back closer to the hotel we were staying at because we were just too far away. Then, we smelled a great smell that convinced us we were exactly where we needed to be. The delicious odor of fish and chips filled our nostrils. Fish and chips has always been one of our favorite meals out…probably because we both grew up on the prairies of Alberta, Canada.
Right away, we asked about ingredients. Specifically, we asked what oil was used. The answer we got was vegetable oil. I confirmed that meant non peanut oil. Our order continued on. When we had the fish and chips on our tray, we trekked upstairs to find a seat and dig in. We were snarfing it all down and were surprisingly disappointmented. It wasn’t quite up to our hoped-for standards. But it was worse than that. At the point where I had eaten almost all my fish, I started reading the paper place mat and stopped breathing when I saw “100% peanut oil” in the line about the ingredients used in their restaurant.
“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!” I said slowly at first and then progressively faster, over and over, “Oh no! Oh no!
I felt the blood draining from my face and my heart started racing.
“What is it??” my husband asked.
I pointed to the placemat.
“But we asked and they said that it was vegetable oil, “ he quickly rationalized, getting up, “Let’s go talk to them.”
He calm and collected with the paper in his hand. I, on the other hand, was a basket of nerves. Was I feeling my throat closing? Did I have hives on my arms? Were my eyes swelling? How could I not have felt anything? And, even worse, would I even make it to a hospital in time? The traffic outside was insane and I didn’t even know how far were were from emergency medical care. My mind was churning as my husband started talking to the manager and showing him the place mat. I was reaching into my purse for my Epipen.
“Oh…those are old. We haven’t made new ones yet. Yes, we used to have peanut oil, but we switched everything to vegetable oil two years ago because there were so many allergies, “ the man told us.
Music to my ears. I had not just eaten food cooked in 100% peanut oil. I was safe. Sound? Well, maybe not. The adrenalin that had shot into my bloodstream still had me shaking for an hour afterwards.
Needless to say, McDonald’s became the restaurant of choice for many of our remaining days on our journey.
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Solitary Lavatory
Not long after the food and beverage cart rolls by us on a flight, we are all watching the same thing – that darned “Lavatory Occupied” sign. It is lit up or not? Can I go or not? There are only one or two for the plane-full, so it’s important to pay attention, keep an eye to the back of the plane, and, most importantly, to watch how much you drink before and during a flight.
I don’t know about you, but I have sometimes seen tremendous lines down the aisle and other times have waited for what seemed like eons for someone to emerge from the teeny tiny room.
On one SouthWest airlines flight ten years ago from San Jose, California to Las Vegas, I was the one causing all the drama for countless fliers.
You see, despite my alerting the airline about my peanut allergy when booking my ticket and despite my reminding them upon checking in, they still insisted on serving peanuts to everyone on the plane except my row and those rows immediately on either side of me. Wow – how gracious of them, huh?
I sat there with my husband and a couple friends wondering out loud what I should do. We were mid-flight and there was no turning back. I was on a plane filled with people about to eat peanuts. I rationalized at first, thinking that there was no way everyone would eat them at the same time. Since it was served from the front of the plane to the back, I figured that the peanut in the air would be staggered and minimal. I was wrong. I started smelling peanut almost immediately after the flight attendants passed our row.
Plan B – cover my nose and mouth. It seemed to make sense at the time. If I just “filtered” the air going into my lungs through the cotton of my shirt, I might stave off some of the peanut protein floating around. Unfortunately, that didn’t work either. Not only did I start to get woozy from breathing in my own carbon diaoxide exhaled into my shirt, but I could still smell peanuts. It wasn’t providing a good barrier.
So, I did the only thing left I could do; I went to the bathroom and stayed there. Normally, airplane lavatories aren’t the nicest smelling places at the best of times, but I quickly noticed that there was no peanut smell there. I had found a safe little cocoon to stay in for the remainder of the 90-minute flight. The other positive was that there was another lavatory for folks to use, since I wasn’t about to emerge until I absolutely had to for landing.
Traveling can definitely be one of the most challenging things to do when you have peanut and tree nut allergies, but, as long as you remain calm and creative, you can always get yourself out of nearly any bad situation…even one in which you might feel trapped.
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Whoa Baby! Another Allergy Shocker
It never ceases to amaze me. Just when I think I’ve got this allergy licked and have figured out everything I need to know to be safe in life, something comes along to shatter my calm existence.
You see, I’m expecting my first child this summer. Like any normal woman, I want to do everything possible to have a healthy baby. Thanks to taking up running a couple years ago, I was already in good shape. I also have been a fairly healthy eater – lots of fruits, vegetables, and stuff like that. So, the first thing I did when I saw the little plus-sign on the stick was make a bee-line for the vitamin aisle. Despite my good nutritional habits, I knew it was a good idea to be taking a pre-natal vitamin. Little did I know how challenging that would be.
There were a couple brands available on the shelf. Per habit of anything I’m going to ingest, I read the ingredients. Shock of all shocks – peanut oil was on the list of one brand. The other brand had one of those delightful “may contain traces of” warnings. Even worse, the one with the warning was the pre-natal version of the women’s multivitamin I had already been taking. Did that mean I was taking a vitamin that just hadn’t been labeled correctly? I left the store empty-handed.
I re-read the ingredients of the multivitamin when I got home. It had no peanut oil or warning and it had all the minimum recommended amounts of vitamins and minerals for pregnant women. So, I kept taking one a day and eating good, well-balanced meals for additional nutrients. I was feeling great and all was going well until the day I saw that I was nearly out of my multivitamin. I did what any normal person would do in that situation – I went to the store to purchase more of the same. That’s when my calm existence was shattered once again.
The very same multivitamin that I had been taking now has a “may contain traces” warning on it as well.
I did find one brand with no peanut oil listed as an ingredient and no warning, so it was a no brainer to buy it. I decided to email the company when I got home…just to be sure. A couple of the ingredients were unfamiliar to me and I wanted to check on them. I’m happy to say that I got a quick response (two days later), but sorry to say that they told me that their vitamins, “due to the manufacturing process”, could indeed contain traces of peanuts and tree nuts.
So, I continue on my quest for a safe pre-natal vitamin. Maybe this will make shopping for maternity clothing seem that much easier.
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The Politics of Eating
Don’t get me wrong; I like to eat as much as the next gal. Dark chocolate – yes. A good steak – definitely. Dinner out with the boss and co-workers – I’ll pass, even if it might include a good steak, dark chocolate, and a price tag of $0.What on earth could prompt an otherwise food-loving female to avoid such an important social situation? Some might think it’s a choice of personal ethics to not mix business and pleasure. Unfortunately, my reason is not so ivory tower. I simply want to remain alive to see another paycheck. As I’ve said on some business dinners:“Hi, I’m Kyla and what I eat here tonight might kill me, so let’s get to know each other better by acquainting you with my Epipen in the event that I might drop out of my chair and fall on the floor, unconscious from anaphylactic shock.”
It’s an interesting ice-breaker when seated next to a Vice-President I’ve barely gotten to know before the water glasses are filled. And not exactly the type of conversation that makes you memorable in the right way when, say, a position opens up months down the road.
The question is – how does someone like me, with a fatal allergy to peanuts and tree nuts, cope with the politics of eating? Where one meal with the right person could open a door to a world of opportunities? Where bonding over bread-breaking means that a resource you need to complete a project is suddenly available?
Some days I feel particularly brave and I go, even if it’s a restaurant I’ve never been to before. Those are the times I call in the cavalry. I call the manager in advance, I speak with the chef, and then I talk to them both again face-to-face when I get to the restaurant that night. My theory is that they will be less reluctant to mistakenly kill me if they’ve seen my face and heard my voice. I’m happy to say that that approach has worked rather well, otherwise I would not be writing this blog right now.
Other times, just the thought of navigating the menu of walnut-crusted Mahi Mahi and greens with toasted almonds to find what I hope will be a safe dish – that won’t cause my throat to close when I’ve finally thought of something witty to say – has me at wits end and freezes me into declining the invitation altogether. As my current boss says, hope is not a valid strategy. I agree. Likewise, any restaurant employee telling me, “I hope we can keep you safe” will quickly have me eating something I’ve brought from home out of my purse, be it cheese and crackers or a nut-free granola bar. Either that or I make a pit stop at In’n’Out Burger on the way home. It might not be the healthiest choice in some people’s eyes, but it’s ironically often the best for my own well-being…at least in the short-term.
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Trust but Verify
A really smart person I know is known for saying these wise words – trust but verify. It means that you should trust people to do the right thing, but you should verify that what you put your trust in. This is especially true for someone with a peanut and tree nut allergy.
Take for example the night I was dining out with my Dad when I was attending university. He was in town on business and I was a starving student. ;) How could I refuse a free meal?
We went to a well-known seafood restaurant in the city. It was the type of food I both liked and was fairly comfortable eating out. As I examined the menu, I saw very little that concerned me. I decided on the baked salmon. When the waiter took my order, I was surprised to learn that the entrée included a house salad as well. I agree to have it, under one condition.
“As long as it doesn’t have any peanuts or other types of nuts, “I told him, “I’m fatally allergic to them.”
He assured me that there were no nuts in the salad and that he would also check on the dressing. So far, so good…and my Dad and I were having a nice visit with each other.
Enter the salad. The moment the plate was set in front of me all the trust I had had was gone.
“Um…what are these?” I asked the waiter, pointing down at what appeared to be almonds all over my salad, but wanting to be sure since I so rarely see them.
“Almonds.”
“Almonds are nuts. I’m allergic to nuts.”
Blank stare.
“Can you just pick them out?” he asked me.
“No.”
As the plate made its way off the table in front of me, I made my way to the front of the restaurant to ask for the manager. Without trust, I was forced to verify. I told him my plight, what had happened, and asked if he could check my entire meal with the chef. He did and I ended up having a really great dinner.
But I never did eat the salad that night. The waiter had returned so quickly with the “new” salad that I was convinced that either he or someone in the kitchen had simply brushed the almonds off before bringing it back to me. That is what I call trusting your gut feeling. I don’t know if that’s what had happened, but I wasn’t about to verify if my feeling was correct or not.
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