After my birth, my mother became allergic to the world. That’s the only way I knew how to put it. So many things could set her off: new carpeting, air fresheners, plastic off-gassing, diesel. Perfumes were among the worst offenders. On top of that, she developed terrible food allergies. The sound of her sniffling became the chorus of my childhood. Some days she couldn’t get out of bed. I’d peek into her darkened room and see her face pinched in discomfort.
Her joints ached, her head swam. Doctors suggested that maybe she was depressed or anxious. “Well, you’d be anxious too if you couldn’t lick an envelope, couldn’t pick up