Or, a funny thing happened on the way to my daughter’s house. I have been meaning to write this story for a while. It came to my mind recently and I had to put it down.
As most of you know from reading my “About” page or following my posts I have extreme chemical sensitivity due to a mold exposure at work. I have two daughters. My younger daughter lived 2 1/2 hours away from me to the north and my older daughter lived 45 minutes from me in the foothills in the opposite direction when this happened.
My younger daughter was here for a visit and we were scheduled to go and visit my older daughter one Saturday afternoon. Younger daughter went and had her hair done earlier in the day. Not thinking (I blame my off and on again companion – brain fog.) we just jumped in my car. Of course she put on one of my required tyvek suits to avoid getting anything in my car. We started down the road and about ten miles into our trip I was having difficulty. I was getting a headache, congested and my voice was slowly getting more of a crackle in it. Suddenly it dawned on both of us that her hair was making me ill.
As soon as possible I pulled to the side of the road and we both jumped out. How were going to make it safe for us to continue on our journey? We couldn’t go on the way things were and I couldn’t call anyone to come help us. We searched the back seat and then the trunk to find something we could put over her hair. Aha! There it was, a white plastic garbage bag in my trunk. I always keep some in the car for emergencies or having to put someone’s belongings in it before they could ride with me (Read “Tyvek – this mold survivor’s best friend” to better understand the reason behind the tyvek suit)
We got the bag out of the trunk and tried to put it over her hair. The wind was blowing and gusts of hair would get under the bag and fill it like a balloon. We fought and fought the wind and the air in the bag. Here we are on the side of the road, she is already wearing the white tyvek suit and we are now trying to put a bag over head.
Enter the highway patrol cruiser. Just as I thought things couldn’t be worse or crazier than they were, the officer gets out to see if we need assistance. I have to explain as simply as I can without appearing to be a lunatic that I have sensitivities to chemicals and my daughter has just gotten her hair done making me ill. I also explain that we are trying to cover her hair up with the bag but the air keeps getting inside the bag. I purposely tried to ignore the fact that she was dressed in this white suit. The officer, however, noticed and made some funny comment about her tyvek suit and then calmly walked over and helped us get the bag on her hair. I was then asked to move aside so that he could write down my license plate number which was required because he had stopped to check our status. As he walked away, he says it bothers him too when his wife gets her hair done.
The story doesn’t end there. A few weeks later our tenant comes to pay rent. He is talking about having coffee with his highway patrol officer friends. One comments about these two women on the side of the road and how he had to help one put a bag over the other one’s head. I immediately start laughing and telling him that I was one of the women he rescued that day. Our tenant knows all about my sensitivities and about my story. He then started laughing and said he couldn’t wait to tell this particular officer that he knows the women.
I knew the officer would most likely go back and tell the story to all his buddies. I mean how often does this kind of thing happen? I just never realized that I would be hearing about it a few weeks later from someone I had known for several years. There is the saying, Seven Degrees of Separation. I don’t know how many degrees of separation there was but it was closer to home than I would have thought.