For the past week or so, it seems like all I’ve been doing is sneezing. Not from COVID-19, thankfully, nor from the flu or even a common cold.
Instead, the source of my recent woes is a dusting of a light greenish-yellow substance, coating everything from driveways, cars, flowers and front porches, and utterly sealing my hopes of escaping the house for the precious outdoors anytime soon.
Sound familiar? While the arrival of spring—replete with blooming flowers and radiant sunshine—typically invites jolts of warmth and happiness for many, for me and millions of other Americans, this season represents a dreaded period that requires, among other coping mechanisms, strict adherence to indoor shelter.
In fact, nearly 50 million Americans suffer from hay fever, or seasonal allergies, and for the second time this pandemic, we’re facing several unpleasant weeks of torturous springtime pollen, that most infamous and insidious side effect of a spring in bloom.
In a typical year, these symptoms—from a whirlwind of sneezing fits to sudden, sporadic itches and relentless sinus pressure—are more or less bearable, especially with a daily dose of Zyrtec or another common allergy medication. But after 12months of rigorous, sustained isolation, with only the bounds of my neighborhood providing any reprieve from the stuffy confines of my home, having to quarantine from the pollen outdoors in addition to the virus feels more than a little repressive.
Perhaps the only upside of this pandemic—a normalization of mask-wearing—means that even after this pandemic ends, we can protect ourselves from seasonal viral and bacterial strains, and those with my same ailments can shield against pollen. It was with this mentality that I decided to test my ability to fare outdoors, donning an N-95 and bravely stepping past my doorstep.
Without having to fear any unwanted stares, I embarked on my daily stroll around my neighborhood with surprising ease, joyfully observing the growth and abundance of pastel-colored flowers, bright yellow honeysuckles and fresh spring grass. Captivated by a particularly beautiful blossom, I reached into a nearby bush when suddenly the first of a series of irksome sensations began to arrive.
Spreading gradually across my face, a flurry of sporadic tingles manifested in the irresistible rubbing and scratching of my eyes and nose. Soon, my sinuses suffered the brunt of this pollen invasion, releasing a watery secretion into my nose and throat.
At this point in my experiment, my mask had achieved the exact opposite of its intended effect, and I could hardly breathe. Despite a snug fit, pollen had still managed to seep its way in and trigger a brisk response from my immune system. Rising heat from the sun and an acute sense of claustrophobia conspired to create a particularly unnerving experience. I simply wanted to rip my mask off my face and stuff my head in a pile of tissues. Further exacerbating a tenuous situation, I found myself several hundred yards downhill from my starting point, meaning that I had yet to endure a far more grueling ascent, with the sun cruelly abetting nature in its unrelenting attack upon my sensibilities.
Needless to say, my aborted outdoor excursion proved my last exposure to nature for the indefinite future. Recently I’ve been glued to the window, a stack of tissue boxes at hand, silently admiring the wondrous happenings of spring and praying for a sudden rainstorm to sweep away the world of unsavory light greenish-yellow powder.
Until that happens, though, I should be somewhat content at least with my ability to actually see the source of my ailments, and through that visibility, a pathogen that I know will disappear with a simple shift of temperature and weather. And maybe—though this may sound overly optimistic—this season’s difficulties offer at least some small measure of constancy in a year of daily irregularities.
Photo courtesy of ForestWander.com
