You learn

“I recommend biting off more than you can chew to anyone

I certainly do

I recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time

Feel free …

Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)

It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)

Wait until the dust settles.

You live, you learn

You love, you learn

You lose, you learn.”

– “You Learn” by Alanis Morissette from her 1995 album “Jagged Little Pill”

Lyrics like these from Canadian rocker Alanis Morissette prove that valuable lessons are often learned from poor decisions. Live and learn, as my folks always said.

Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think, (sorry, couldn’t help myself) that in 1995 during the singer/songwriter’s stay in Los Angeles to record “You Learn,” she was robbed on an empty street by a man with a gun. The 21-year-old later developed intense anxiety and suffered daily panic attacks.

As Morissette said in interviews, she focused her mental health issues on the soul-baring lyrics of the angst-ridden album, “Jagged Little Pill” – one of my all-time favorites.

The album won seven Grammys, and in 1996, it sold more than 10 million copies. More than 20 years later, it was adapted into a Broadway musical.

Moral: Good stuff happens when we wait until the dust settles.

But sometimes we must learn the hard way. And by we, I mean me.

When I was 23, I moved to Miami for my first real newsroom job. Despite earning barely enough to stock my fridge and living in the tropics surrounded by bugs as big as Buicks, I learned to like warm winters and balmy days at the beach. For me, it was a 180-degree turn from Michigan’s predictable four seasons.

Florida also had mangoes, something I had never tried in two decades of my then-sheltered existence. So, one day I ate one.

My face blew up like a balloon, and I got hives all over my tanned and toned body. It was startling. Lots of Benadryl and Calamine lotion helped ease the itching, and in a day or so, I was back to being my hot little self.

You oughta know (see what I did there?), I got docked since in addition to low wages we didn’t have sick days either. As if.

But how could I have known I was allergic to mangoes if I’d never eaten a mango? You live, you learn.

Same thing for allergies to medications. A lot of people cannot take penicillin because they have a severe allergic reaction to it. Fortunately, I am not one of them.

My partner Rebecca is one of them. She hears the suffix “cillin” and practically goes into anaphylactic shock. She’s also allergic to poison ivy, nickel, formaldehyde, and God knows what else.

A model patient who could heat an allergist’s pool, Rebecca should probably wear one of those silver medical alert bracelets. The sun will explode before that happens.

On September 29, God and everyone else learned what else: sulfa drugs. As in the sulfa-based antibiotic, bactrim.

Introduced 60 years ago in the United States, bactrim’s common side effects include nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite and skin rashes. That drug does not go right through you. (Are you catching on, music fans?)

Bactrim builds up and lingers. Severe adverse reactions to it may cause death. No kidding.

How severe, you ask? Severe as in something you don’t ever want to happen to you or your worst enemy from grade school. Severe as in the ominous Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and toxic epidermal necrolysis, among others.

Don’t google either of those diseases. Don’t. Do. It. I warned you.

And to think this all began with a simple bee sting on Rebecca’s left ring finger in mid-September. At least we think it was a bee. Maybe a wasp. Or, by the size of the bite, a machete-toting hummingbird.

That’s the thanks we get for feeding birds expensive seed from fancy bird feeders. Ungrateful bastards. Remember: We fly south for the winter, too, mister.

Within days, her jabbed finger got infected, turning 50 shades of red/purple/black with red lines moving toward the inside of her forearm. A visit to her primary doctor’s physician’s assistant led her to a 10-day bactrim Rx to treat the possible/likely infection, along with a course of prednisone to control pain, swelling and itching.

Those steroids ensured that she’d move any and all furniture in the house – and perhaps Mustang Sal – while consuming mass quantities of any food that wasn’t nailed down. “With one hand in my pocket,” she promised. (By now, are you googling the album’s track list?)

On her ninth day into taking the bactrim, she had a weird feeling in her mouth. Sort of like when you sip McDonald’s coffee too soon or take an overzealous bite out of your Hot and Ready PizzaPizza. Ouchie ouchie.

Except she hadn’t done either of those things.

Head over feet (lame), she went back to the PA for a steroid shot and more prednisone. Nothing improved that evening, and frankly, she was getting worse. Again, she refused to go to the ER.

Her lips, tongue and gums were on fire. The palms of her hands and soles of her feet burned from the inside out. She couldn’t eat. It was awful.

“What’s the matter, Mary Jane?” I asked.

“All I really want is some relief,” Rebecca pleaded.

“Perfect. We’re going to the ER,” I said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Wake up, I don’t want to get COVID,” she said.

“I’m not the doctor, but you’re going to die at this kitchen table of whatever it is you’ve got!” I said, secretly hoping it wasn’t contagious.

(Pause for effect.)

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Forgiven.”

(Editor’s note: At this point, I have successfully included all 13 song titles from “Jagged Little Pill” into this blog post. By now, my oldest pop culturally-challenged sister is saying, “Who is this Alanis Morissette person?”)

The following morning brought with it even more symptoms, and those magic words you never want to hear: “Um, I can’t swallow, and my throat feels tight.”

“Swallow it down (like a jagged little pill) …”

Once Rebecca’s hair and makeup was done, we drove to the ER. She was admitted and given IV steroids every eight hours for five days until she had a severe allergic reaction to that: monster headache, sky-high blood pressure and what felt like a “brick on her chest.” One nitroglycerine pill under her tongue did the trick.

“What just happened?” I asked after leaving for five minutes to move the car. The nurse gave Rebecca a Xanax before offering me one and taking one herself. (Half kidding.)

It’s been a little over two weeks. She’s healing nicely, but her palms and feet are peeling like a snake molting its skin. Freaky, and just in time for Halloween. Good times.

We’re grateful for the hospital care she received and not taking any chances with angry patio bees or whatever flying killer insect started this horrific ordeal.

In fact, now that Rebecca has had her brush with death, she wants to build a four-season room just to be safe.

With all of those steroids in her system, I’m betting we won’t have to pay for the demo work.