For the past several months, I’ve experienced what I thought were hives, welts and bumps on my body that itched relentlessly.
I thought – for no real reason – they were a side effect of the medications I have been taken since my open heart surgery, or perhaps the medicine treating my diabetes. I don’t know why I didn’t go see Karen Bruce, my nurse practitioner, I have sort of gotten into the habit of toughing these things out.
My pharmacist said she doubted they were a side affect, it seemed my body was rejecting something.
I am oddly healthy, low blood pressure, great blood sugar, low cholesterol, great heartrate and I like to go to doctor’s offices and pharmacies as infrequently as possible. So I just bought some cortisone cream and Benadryl cream and have been applying them. The itching and swelling made sleep difficult and kept me intensely uncomfortable.
Finally, I realized I was in over my head, and the anti-itch creams were not going to work, or not long enough, for sure. The house was filling up with tubes. I was not sleeping well. I was uncomfortable almost all of the time.
Today I went to see Karen, and she looked at me and smiled. “These are not hives,” she said, “and they are not insect bites. They are scabies.”
I’ve heard of scabies, read about them, they occur all over the world, especially virulent in poor and underdeveloped communities where people are crowded closely together. And also with people who walk in the woods or spend a lot of time around animals. Scabies are microscopic eight-legged parasites, said to be highly infectious, that burrow into the skin and trigger a strong response from the human immune system, whose cells rush up to attack them, thus the awful itching.
Despite the idea that they are an affliction of the poor – and they are – they occur everywhere, to all kinds of people. Especially to people like me, who walk in the woods every day and hug donkeys, brush horses and sit around with dogs. Sometimes they are infectious, sometimes not. Maria, who has had a lot of contact with me daily, has not had them. Neither has Karen Bruce’s husband, who has gotten them a number of times.
Karen cracked up when she diagnosed me, so did the nurses. So did Maria when I told her. “I don’t know,” said Maria, “there’s something funny about a New York Times Bestselling author getting scabies, somehow I just don’t think of people like you getting them.”
Karen could hardly contain herself, and her laugh was infectious. I started laughing too, as did the staff of the health center. I imagine I am a ridiculous character in some ways.
And then I headed to the pharmacy to get medicated shampoo and body cream. We have to wash a lot of clothes and linens, I have showers to take, lotions to apply, more trips to the pharmacy.
Oh, and the best part? “They love cortisone!,” said Karen. “They eat it.” So I’ve been feeding the little buggers.
Tonight, a war on scabbies. Another lesson to be learned about getting help, taking care of myself. Karen didn’t have to say it, but it evoked my long denial about my heart, gasping for air when I walked up the driveway and writing it off to ageing or asthma.
Once again, Karen to the rescue. She is great, a health care system all by herself that works. Once again, another bovine male gets a dose of mortality and reality. That’s probably why all the women were laughing, otherwise they might cry.
I have some work to do, but I greatly look forward to sleeping again and not feeling like a giant mosquito bite.