No Explanation Necessary
Laura Finney
7/7/2026
It’s a very WASP-y knee jerk reaction to pretend that everything is absolutely fine in the face of what is clearly a catastrophe. The house may be on fire, but there’s no need to make a scene. Let’s simply relocate to the patio, refresh our martinis and rosé, and carry on while the fire department does its thing. It is simultaneously ridiculous and, if this is how you were raised, oddly comforting.
For reasons known only to my internal Department of Emotional Processing, and perhaps my upbringing, I did not react to the diagnosis of Alpha-Gal in any way that made sense to anyone – least of all me. Considering that I had spent the previous fifty-six years existing almost entirely on a carefully curated diet of bacon cheeseburgers, pizza and anything else capable of clogging an artery, discovering that I could no longer eat well over half the grocery store should, by all rights, have been emotionally devastating.
I should have wept. I should have raged. At the very least, I should have taken to my bed in the throes of despair for a respectable forty-eight hours. Instead, I just carried on.
Because of this, on any given day I hear, "How are you handling this so well?" or, "Are you just putting on a brave face?" The honest answer is: I don't know. Have I been so thoroughly indoctrinated into the "soldier on," "buck up," "you're fine" worldview of my people that it's now my factory setting? Probably.
Even so, you would think that having your universe tilt off its axis would warrant at least a brief intermission for "Well... this sucks," before moving on to "So, what shall we do with the chicken tonight?"
Please don't get me wrong. This isn't a humblebrag. Skipping merrily over the existential crisis and carrying on with dinner is hardly the gold standard of emotional wellness. Looking back, I suspect I wasn't processing anything at all. I was simply adapting.
So, I carried on through the steep learning curve of fall and, by spring, had settled comfortably into the land of fins and feathers without a second thought.
I grew accustomed to following “I have Alpha-Gal” with a quick explanation, because I was surrounded by people who were blissfully unaware it existed. That little bombshell tended to land with the same mixture of shock, fear, and skepticism one might expect if I had casually announced I’d been bitten by a porcupine and, as a result, had grown an extra ear on my elbow.
And then I returned to Martha’s Vineyard, and it felt like a deep exhale. For the first time in nearly a year, I found myself surrounded by people who didn't need an explanation. Here, the statement “I have alpha-gal” rather than shock and confusion is often met with “Have you tried the AG menu at such and such restaurant?”
And don’t even get me started on the spray! Actually, do.
Before Alpha-Gal, I probably would have thought Alpha-Gal patients sounded a bit like Chicken Little. Every new tick story was proof the sky was falling. Then I got bitten, and suddenly I wasn't sure whether the sky was falling or whether I was simply one of the few people looking up. From Alpha-Ville, the rapid spread of lone star ticks—and ticks in general—looks less like an isolated problem and more like trouble gathering on the horizon.
Which is to explain how and why I have turned into the semi-crazed woman banging on about tick spray while the normals look at me as if I’ve skipped off to the happy farm. The funny thing is, I genuinely can't tell whether I've become irrationally obsessed... or simply early. One year ago would I have heeded my warning?
Recently, back in Maryland, I attended a sporting event in a field. Before leaving the house, I sprayed every square inch of exposed skin and packed not one, not two, but three cans of tick spray to share with the group. I felt like the cheerful woman at the end of the Costco aisle enthusiastically offering free samples. "Tick spray? Tick spray? Anyone? Protect yourself from a life-altering allergy?"
I did not have a single taker.
As I watched everyone wandering happily through what my brain had classified as a tick convention where they were the dinner menu, I couldn't understand how they could be so casual. How did they not appreciate the ramifications of this decision?
Of course, I should understand. A year ago, I would have politely declined too. I simply wouldn't have thought it was necessary. It's amazing how quickly an abstract possibility becomes a pressing reality once it has your name on it.
Here on Martha's Vineyard, however, my evangelism is received rather differently. Which spray do you use? How do you treat your clothes with permethrin? How often do you reapply? No one rolls their eyes. No one smiles indulgently. No one quietly edges away from the increasingly animated woman clutching three cans of bug spray.
Instead, they nod... and reach out their hand.
It is such a small thing, and yet it caught me completely off guard. Somewhere between comparing bug sprays and swapping safe restaurant recommendations, I realized I hadn't explained Alpha-Gal to a single person in weeks.
And yes, the ticks are still here. They're obnoxious, determined little beasts, and I intend to continue dousing myself in enough repellent to make me mildly flammable.
And no, I still don't think I've properly processed what happened. Perhaps I wasn't handling it quite as brilliantly as I'd imagined. Perhaps I was simply too busy adapting—learning, reading labels, finding safe food, explaining Alpha-Gal to bewildered strangers - to mourn.
It took returning to the Vineyard to realize there had been something to grieve after all. The good news is that I found my people. And, thankfully, my food.
Which is fortunate, because I'm still the slightly unhinged woman waving cans of tick spray around and warning anyone within earshot that the lone star tick is plotting world domination.
The only difference is that, here on the Vineyard, people don't slowly back away. They ask if I have an extra can.