Or, “How I Spent My Summer, an Essay of Adventure”, by Jaelle.
The day I was assaulted by an arachnid was not marked by any ominous signs. Sure, there was a horde of crows I spotted on the way into town – roadkill deer, a common occurrence when you mix highways, nighttime, and drunken rednecks. I remember very little from that day in the way of crazy Signs From The Apocalypse. I can only assume that either I’ve blocked it all completely – or it was really, just a day like any other.
I don’t remember being bitten. I do remember going to a friend’s very-religious-themed wedding, so it may have happened in church. I was wearing a dress with nylons. I remember these two details because neither occur with any frequency. I’ve been known to actively play sick to avoid both Church and dresses. So I believe, looking back, that clearly God either doesn’t approve of me in Church, or me in a dress, or perhaps even both.
What I do remember clearly is the fact that halfway home I had to pull over because my left leg below the knee was burning-itchy. Must be the nylons, I thought. I hardly ever wear nylons, because they don’t come in a 5X unless I hit a specialty store, and I don’t often travel the two hours to the Big City to go and get some. Yes! I thought as I parked, jumped out and rolled down my nylons, finally I am freeeee!
Glancing down at my leg, I failed to connect the two small red bumps with anything to do with the itching burn that now was beginning to waver in and out. I just gave my leg a quick rub, considered the possibility of a bad shave job (I hardly ever shave, either, since I have faint, thin, blond hair which you can hardly see at 3 inches with a magnifier, let alone at thirty paces), and drove the rest of the way home with my dress ricked up around my hips.
Life continued as normal in it’s routine of work-work, farm-work, family, and sleeping. My leg lost the burning sensation and occasionally itched. I kept a casual eye on it, glancing down every fourth day or so, but for the most part I largely ignored my leg, as it in turn ignored me.
Then one day I woke up and decided to wear a pair of capris. It was my day off, and plus 30 C, so I said “screw it, I don’t care that on me these look like harem balloon pants” and put them on. Then I went upstairs to eat breakfast and visit with the family. I hadn’t seen them for a few days.
My mother took one look at my leg and FREAKED. “What the hell happened!??!” She sipped her coffee and sorted through her financial papers.
Mouth full of cereal, I looked down at the offender in question and tried not to choke. Somehow, overnight, or else wise without my notice, those two tiny red bumps had become two large purple bruises, with blisters on top. I gently prodded one and nearly swooned as the itching burn returned. Absence apparently made the heart grow fonder, as I had to control the seriously demanding urge to scratch my skin off. Preferably with a knife.
“Um… mosquito bite gone wrong?”
She fixed me with a gimlet stare. “That’s gone beyond “wrong”, Jaelle, and into “get thee to a doctor a.s.a.p.”
Taking the hint, I shot back, “So what you’re saying is that we’ll make an appointment today?”
“No. What I’m saying is that I’m leaving for town in half an hour, and you’re going to go to the hospital waiting room.”
Some days it’s easier to just go along with what Ma wants, so I gave up. Got dressed, cleaned, and was on the way into town. Making sure she knew I knew she meant business, Ma drove straight to the hospital, double-parked in the emergency area, and dragged me through the front doors. Thank Goddess it’s a small town, I recall thinking. Hopefully it’s a slow day at the hospital.
It was a slow day at the hospital (which really works as a Long-Term-Care facility with emergency services almost as an afterthought), which I remember being grateful for as Ma accosted the front desk nurse she knew. “Kellie!” She smiled. “Jaelle-”
“You know what, Ma?” I interject rudely, causing everyone to focus on me. “I think you need to go and re-park the car, I’ll talk to Kellie on my own.” I shove gently at her, and it is only with a hissed I’m an adult that she moves. I smile and half-shrug at Kellie as if to say, Mothers, right?
“I think she’s over-reacting, but…” and show the nurse in question my leg. She comes from behind the desk to inspect it closely. So do the other two nurses. A volunteer candy striper slows down on her way by for a look as well. Kellie deftly grabs my leg at the ankle and pulls it closer. I suddenly know how horses feel.
The three nurses (Fates? I wonder idly as I try to determine what they’re saying) speak in that Universal Medical Language. The only words I manage to hear are “infection” and “staph”. Oh, and something about “Prime Minister Chretien.”
Oh, shit. Nearly everybody under thirty knows that the Prime Minister in question is famous not for anything political, but for the fact that he contracted flesh-eating bacteria. I mentally start swearing/alternately praying.
They ask me all sorts of questions, like “when did this happen?” and “does it hurt?” and “why did you wait so long?” They don’t appear impressed when I reply with “I dunno”, “only when you touch it” and “it only got like this this week”. I vaguely hear the word “idiot” being whispered and pretend it’s my imagination. I could have offered better reasons, such as I’ve been working on a report that’s due, I’ve been busy, you’re busy enough, I didn’t want to bother anyone, or the popular theory on fat people who receive shitty health care. I could have reminded Kellie about the last time I was here at the hospital, after a week of menorraghea which ended in my fainting at work. I say nothing.
“Well, it looks like it’s infected” seems to be the general consensus, along with the fact that I’m an idiot. They tell me to go wait and that the visiting doc will see me as soon as she’s able. I pass by the good Doctor E on my way to the waiting area. We exchange “heys” and she asks me what I’m in for.
“Leg.” I grunt. “Bite, wound, infection, I dunno.”
“Hmm.” She says, sounding interested. “Well, come with me.”
I adjust course and follow the good doctor through a maze of paperwork and curtains, until she can get me up on an examining bed. I prop my leg up. She tells me that I’m the first person all day and that it looks like my bites have become infected.
“That’s the popular theory.” I reply, resisting the urge to add a “duh”. She seems to hear it anyway, shooting me a quick, assuring smile. She digs out a small scalpel and gently pokes the blister, which gives up and explodes. I stare at the resulting drainage: a mixture of dark, dying blood and pus. It doesn’t look good. I swipe a finger at it and sniff. It doesn’t smell good. “Infected.” I tell the doctor, who hands me some antibacterial wipes.
“Looks like it might be a recluse bite. Keep cleaning this.” She orders, and leaves. (I find out later she called some people to discuss recluse spider bites and what they look like. It’s not a common thing, apparently.)
I swab my draining leg, mentally ignoring all the horror stories I’ve heard about brown recluse spider bites. How they always start small like this. How eventually some people have to get entire body parts scraped out. Maggot treatments. I dab a little more frantically.
The good doctor returns. “I could take some samples.” She offers. “But it doesn’t sound like a recluse.”
“Oh thank Gods.” I mutter back. “I was getting a tad nervous back there.”
She grins, and I remember why I like her. She’s got a sharp and fast sense of humor. “As long as you keep it drained,” she tells my Ma, who by this time has tracked me down, “She should be okay. Just keep it cleaned and draining. She shouldn’t lose her legs” She slaps on some kiddie bandages. I ask if losing a limb was an option. She doesn’t joke back, just reminds me to drain it. Keep it cleaned.
Gotcha. I can do that. Give me a Xacto knife and I’ll keep the sucker drained. I don’t want to lose my freaking limb.
So we leave, my leg freely oozing under the very girly Barbie band aids. As soon as I can I exchange the girly band aids for cooler tattoo-flash ones.
Life continues. I go home, and my sisters crack “Holy Amy Winehouse” jokes at me. It takes me a minute to connect that name with the song I use to teach rights at work. (“They tried to make me have a shower today/I said, “no, no, no”. They can’t discriminate against me, I say “no, no, no”.) Apparently the singer has been spotted dragging a rotten limb down a boardwalk.
Over the next few weeks, I watch my leg bites shrivel up and die. I am the butt of more zombie jokes than I care to shake a voodoo stick at. I even feel a bit like a rejected extra from Shaun of the Dead, as if I wasn’t “zombie enough” to be on camera. Throughout it all, I clean and scratch and drain, and accept the fact that I will have some serious scars on my leg, later. I don’t care, as long as I still have a leg.
Fast forward into October. I’m still scabbing. Still draining. I corner the good doctor again and explain how it’s not going away. She takes a quick look and tells me, yeah, it’s normal. It’s better. I’m fine, and definitely no longer in danger of losing anything but her respect.
And oddly enough, I have become attached to my rotting leg. I find excuses to wear shorter pants, even though it’s already snowed. I roll my pants up at team meetings to rudely inspect my bite. I tell everyone. People are largely mildly grossed out, although one person felt it was imperative to remind me that I’ll have “large, disfiguring scars for LIFE!” (She didn’t understand why I couldn’t care less about the scars.) I laugh more. “Hey, wanna see something disgusting?”
I use it as a shock tactic with my grandmother. “Hey, I know you want me to go to the U of A and be a nurse like my cousin, but LOOK AT MY LEG! And I’ve changed my major to Women’s Studies. I’m a feminist AND I have a rotting limb!” (Haven’t heard back from that one, yet. Color me disappointed. Happy.)
And I feel better. Not just about the leg, but about myself. I started walking at home more, figuring that it would help move the drainage along. It has, but I’ve also become addicted to walking. I now park my car away from work and walk to work. I encourage my clients to walk with me. I start doing monthly BSEs. (That’s regularly checking the ladies, for those who don’t know.)
I turn my report in late, figuring at the very least I have a handy (or leggy?) excuse. I tell people to fuck off more, and they chalk it up to “she’s dealing with the zombie disease.” I research spiders and wonder if somehow one got shipped from Korea in the Hyundai I bought in January. I get some time off and do some serious hibernating. I work at putting things into perspective. I tell myself “fuck fear!” and draw up a list of crazy, not-me shit to do before I turn 30.
See, it doesn’t matter that my report was late or that my employee was upset with my other employee or that the boss has resigned and will leave me in December. I don’t care anymore about that stuff. It’s work, whatever. I didn’t lose my leg.
My name is Jaelle. And I survived a wacky spider bite infection. And I didn’t lose my leg in the process.
