The Horse I Rode In On
Laura Finney
6/27/2026
And if you were wondering whether I was ever going to jump off the crazy train, your wait is over.
After six months of chasing referrals, scheduling tests, seeing specialists, and jumping through so many hoops I could have qualified as an agility dog, I was done playing by the rules.
Technically, my next stop was supposed to be the heart electrician. The latest test had revealed that the electrical impulse in my heart was originating somewhere in the middle instead of from the usual starting point.
When they told me this, I couldn't help but giggle. My mind immediately went to When a Stranger Calls. Instead of, "The electrical impulse is originating in the middle of your heart," all I heard was, "The call is coming from inside the house."
It was certainly an interesting plot twist but, in my mind, it was just another strange side effect of alpha-gal. As usual, the doctors were unconvinced.
Medicine has a famous expression: "When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras."
My doctors apparently never got that memo.
They were off on safari while the horse stood in the middle of the room wondering if we were ever going to offer him carrot.
And here is where Laura got off the train.
Technically, the allergist didn't want to treat me until the cardiologist signed off. The cardiologist wasn't going to sign off until I'd seen the electrophysiologist. Presumably, the electrophysiologist would eventually want me to see the left-handed shamanologist before anyone was willing to prescribe so much as an antihistamine.
I was officially done with ologists.
From the cheap seats, the whole thing looked straightforward.
Every bizarre symptom had started after alpha-gal. Yet every new specialist seemed determined to prove it was something else. I remained convinced that if we could get the allergic reactions under control, my heart might remember how to behave.
So instead of continuing down the Ology Express, I jumped the tracks and headed back to the allergist.
I wouldn't say I had a plan.
It was more of a strategy based loosely on optimism, selective hearing, and the hope that if I walked confidently enough into her office, everyone might forget I hadn't completed all of my assigned homework.
And in a way, it kind of worked.
I told her I was going to see the heart electrician. My fingers were thoroughly crossed at the time, so it wasn't really a lie so much as a complete fabrication.
More importantly, I told her I believed this treatment would help immensely.
Shockingly, she agreed.
And then she produced another hurdle.
Before I could receive the treatment, I needed more blood work to determine whether I qualified for the treatment.
And because I know someone will ask, I'm intentionally being vague about the treatment. I'm not their marketing department, and I have absolutely no interest in becoming an alpha-gal treatment influencer.
So, I tucked the blood test order into my pocket and on we went.
"Do you have your EpiPens with you at all times?
"Do you feel confident using them?"
"Have you ever had to use one?"
Here is where I really wish I knew how to be quiet.
Had I simply answered yes, yes, no, I would have skipped out of that office blissfully unaware of what was about to happen, delighted that I was finally inching closer to the treatment I'd been chasing for six months.
But no.
I opened my mouth.
Sometime around Christmas I managed to eat a turkey sausage I had not thoroughly vetted. As we have all learned by now, the universe enjoys inserting mammal into places mammal has absolutely no business being. Turkey sausage is apparently one of those places.
I told her that by lunchtime my throat was getting tight, my mouth tasted like metal, my hands were itchy, and an overwhelming sense of doom had settled over me. Looking back, that was probably the moment I should have used the EpiPen.
The trouble is that anaphylaxis comes with confusion. And confusion is loud. It is also surprisingly persuasive. Confusion kept insisting I was probably overreacting.
She stopped me.
"You should have called an ambulance! You could have been having a stroke!"
A stroke?
What is it with these doctors and their zebras?
There is a perfectly respectable horse named Alpha-Gal standing here in the exam room that explains everything. We've known about the horse for months. I've just described what was, in hindsight, an almost textbook allergic reaction, and somehow, we've wandered into neurology.
I honestly don't remember much after that.
What I do remember is walking out of her office knowing I would never be back.
No more doctors. No more referrals. No more jumping through hoops to satisfy the odd whims of medical professionals willing to overlook the obvious.
I sometimes think about the old Laura who started this journey.
She was so sure that if she just found the right doctor, followed the instructions, and showed up to every appointment on time, everything would work out in the end.
She was adorable.
But sometimes I want to smack her upside the head.
Mostly, though, I just feel sorry for her. She had no idea what was coming.
I'm done with doctors for the time being.
But if I did have to see one, I'd take New Laura with me. The version of me who asks more questions. Who isn't afraid to say, "That doesn't make sense." Who has learned that a second opinion isn't a betrayal. Who knows my body has the deciding vote.
And if I ever find myself standing in another exam room with a perfectly good horse while everyone else heads off in search of zebras...
...well, the horse and I have somewhere else to be.