BODY WATCH : Twice Stung, Thrice Shy : She didn’t think a wasp sting was a big deal--until she had a scary reaction to the toxin. Now she avoids the insects like the plague.

After a focused workout with my horse, I felt a slight sensation on my arm. I looked down just in time to see the yellow-butt end of a wasp flying off in the distance.

I asked the barn owner if she had an antidote that would minimize the swelling. She quickly brought a hypodermic needle from her arsenal of medical supplies for the animals and spread a few drops of a steroid on my arm. She said it was harmless. She then gave me the hypo to go and sent me on my way.

As I headed home, my right eye began to tear. A hot, itchy, burning sensation began to spread over my body like a wet wool blanket. I began to scratch violently.

I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and made a beeline for the bathroom. I splashed cool water on my face, which gave no relief. I lifted my shirt and discovered that my entire upper body was red and blotchy. I felt nauseated and lightheaded.

I stumbled to my car to call the barn owner. After many ringy-dingies, I gave up. Totally disoriented now, I rushed back to the bathroom, hoping that was a safe place to pass out. That’s when, to my shock, I looked in the mirror and saw someone I did not know.

My face had visibly grown like a time-lapse photography flower. At this rate of expansion, my flesh would soon be tearing from my skull. I remember uttering an “Oh, my God” as I felt my nose, which by now had spread across my face. My upper lip was puffed and felt hard. My eyes had turned turquoise with blood red rims. I started to faint, but was able to catch myself.

I staggered into the dining lounge, slumped onto a seat and put my head between my legs.

“Are you OK?” asked a friendly muncher.

“No, I’m not. Wasp sting.”

A crowd was gathering. Two women with their young children looked on with growing alarm.

“She should get a doctor!” one shouted.

I agreed that would be nice and indicated that if someone could get me to the emergency ward, it would be great. The Friendly Muncher seemed to care and stepped in.

“You can’t take her in your car,” he told the women. “What if she passes out on the way?”

It had come to this. A well-meaning woman couldn’t help me because there was no guarantee I wouldn’t die or, worse, do anything messy on the way to the hospital. I was a pariah, an untouchable, no darned good.

The Muncher offered to call 911.

“Thanks,” I moaned. “Why don’t you do that?”

I still wasn’t sure what was happening to me. My symptoms were subsiding, but I could barely swallow a drink of water and my shirt was soaked with perspiration.

The paramedics arrived immediately and administered oxygen. It did alleviate a great deal of the unsteadiness. Even though I thought I might vomit and my bowels were in a hard little knot, I was not dizzy anymore.

I insisted on telling the paramedics about the hypo in the car. I was afraid that the steroid had caused the reaction. I did not want them to treat me for the wrong problem. One of the paramedics went to my car and brought the needle into the restaurant--to the horror of all my newfound allies.

They gasped when he placed the needle on the table. They could only assume that I was a drug-crazed, middle-aged athlete who needed this to make it through her day. Their once kindly demeanors vanished and were replaced with shock and disgust. I could not speak with the oxygen mask over my mouth to explain. I was grateful to be hoisted onto the gurney and to get out of there.

The ambulance jockey said, “You look awfully red.”

I could only imagine the prize-winning beefsteak tomato size of my face. I wondered if my head was about to blow sky-high. He inserted the oxygen in my nose to cool me down. I was beginning to feel cynical about the whole ordeal.

“So, what will the doctor do besides tell me to drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest?”

“They can do lots of things,” he explained. “If your lungs are so constricted that your breathing becomes labored, they can give you a shot for that. If your heart starts to palpitate, they can reverse that before it kills you. They can give you drugs to relieve the itching and the rash.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I might die from a sting. Although it had crossed my mind that I might rather be dead than greet each day with the sight of the face I’d seen in the bathroom.

No expense would be spared.

When we arrived, I was attended to immediately by a kindly nurse who asked a lot of questions. I told her that I had been stung before and that this had not occurred. She explained that the effect of bee, yellow jacket and wasp bites and stings is cumulative. The old poison was still in my system and this recent incident had put enough toxin into my body to bring this on. I showed her the hypo. She was only mildly interested. Apparently, I had all the classic symptoms of a sting victim.

The doctor soon came and he dittoed the nurse’s conclusion.

“We’ll give you a shot of Benadryl along with a shot of adrenaline. That ought to take care of this.”

No sooner said than done, I was left to rest. Within 10 minutes, I began to shake violently. Assuming it was the cold from the air conditioning that was causing me to quake, I moaned to the doctor for a blanket. He handed me a thin sheet and said I was experiencing a typical reaction from the drugs he had given me. After sleeping it off for about an hour, I was able to leave.

That night, I experienced lumps, bumps and a rash that covered my buttocks and went well down my thighs. It was gone in the morning thanks to a little help from modern science in the form of 50 milligrams of Benadryl.

It turns out that this Achilles heel is with me for life. Gone are the days of lollygagging around the barn, oblivious to the perils of nature. I have trashed all my colorful print shirts left over from Hawaiian holidays and stick to the basic grays and earth tones that insects find boring. I no longer wear scented deodorant or hair spray, and would not dream of patting on some heavenly scent on the days I plan to go to the barn.

I have given up picnic lunches at the barn. The smell of any kind of food serves as a magnet to yellow jackets. When I dine on outdoor patios, I wear a color-coordinated fly swatter clipped to my belt. I’m convinced that the best defense is a good offense against insects that cross social boundaries.

The only comment I’ve received since swatting in public has been “good eye.”