A Very Long Story About A Very Small Incident

I'm having a hard time coming up with a title for this post. It should probably have something to do with being Accident Prone or a Disaster Waiting to Happen. Or even that I Nearly Died, but thats too dramatic, and possibly untrue. The one I like best is a Walking Calamity. What can I say... it's a work in progress.

I had a super fun day yesterday. It had an interesting plot line, a good cast of characters, movement forward, a lesson learned... or it could have been an episode from Days Of Our Lives... but with much less sex and romance.

I was stung by yellowjackets multiple times yesterday morning. But that's just jumping in, and I need to back up a bit.

Needing stove wood to get through the winter, I called a cousin-in-law to bring firewood. We clear a small area and he dumped the wood behind my house in front of the walkout basement doors. Yesterday morning, while waiting to go to his Nannies's for a Day of Fun and a much-anticipated sleepover with his little cousin, Evan decided now would be a good time to start piling the wood in the basement. I'm going along with my 3 yr old's suggestion because it needs to be done. While out in our tee-shirts we agitated some yellow-jacket nest in the ground by the wood that we didn't even see. Flailing my arms around must have further enraged those nasty little dive-bombers who then came after me.

(Remember in the good old days? Life was simpler then. You got stung by a bee, you passed out. Simple. I'd had wasp stings before.)

Take with me now a little walk through my head as I look at the reactions I experienced during this next weird time in my life.

"Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! What the heck?! Evan!!!!" I run away from the woodpile and grab Evan to take with me.

There is little to no screaming occurring from someone other than me, so I assume he's not stung; I check him over just to be sure. Thank God he didn't get stung. Not even once!

And then I praise him, for listening to mummy and getting away when I told him to; that he heard the danger in my voice and really listened and did what he was supposed to (because every opportunity is a life lesson, right? And you have to catch your child doing something good and praising it).

I'm nothing if not thorough.

We check out the woodpile from a distance, but can't see much. I have to get the wood in the basement eventually, but not with an open wasp nest because those little buggers REALLY hurt. Plan of action: go to Apma's (grandfather's) house to ask him about the yellow-jackets and what to do.

Meanwhile my pinky finger starts swelling (where a stinger lodged in the knuckle) horribly. "Gee, I hope it doesn't get too big and cut off my blood vessels and circulation and end up losing a finger." (Didn't I tell you I was thorough?)

After putting benedryl creme on the stings (4 of them) I took a couple benedryl and we headed out. (When tree planting [in a former life] in Northern Alberta and the Yukon, it was standard procedure to carry benedryl and some little stimulant pill [I forget what it's called] in a tiny pack provided by the company. That's what I was taught. I learned well.) The little finger isn't so little anymore and I'm becoming more concerned, and then a new thought crosses my mind: "I hope I don't get stretch marks on my finger from becoming a small sausage."

Apma checks out the situation and helps make a plan to deal with them for us. I did too: I decided to leave my son with his grandparents early and I would make a plan for seeing a doctor because the swelling and pain (did I mention the pain? the burning hot pokers of hell and destruction stabbing into my hand, arm and leg? Oh. My. God.) are really getting to me.

Somewhere in all this I have a sudden strange compelling itch and find big angry bumps all over my... um... inner thigh and lower stomach area. Okay, okay. On the groin area as well. "What the hell? I wasn't stung THERE!" But I do what I gotta do and spread more benedryl cream on this new wonderful affliction. "Damn! I hope I can still get a bikini wax."

I gather up Evan's clothes for his overnight adventure, but realize I'm getting weirdly shaky. My heart is pounding. I figure driving into town by myself is not the best idea, and get the Apma to agree to drive me in. (Yes, I'm prone to panic, but not usually about things I understand or have thought out. And this all has taken an hour, giving me plenty of time to reason and rationalize and conclude: it's not really that bad. So I'm honestly not panicking.)

Then I realize, "Oh crap. I'm in sweat pants. I can't go to the walk-in clinic in sweat pants!" But then my legs don't really work, things start going dark, and I'm panting. So I do what any normal person would do: I call a friend who's been trained as a volunteer fireman/medical first responder. He tells me to get off the damn phone and call 9-1-1. But my question was really, "Is this just an anxiety attack? Cuz I'm gonna feel dumb about this later!"

He insists.

By now I can't stand up, so I call 9-1-1. Here's when something else weird happened: an EMS vehicle was on it's way back to the next county after transporting an elderly patient to our hospital and just happened to be passing by my road on the highway, about a mile away. We're several miles out of town, and an EMS would normally take a good 15 minutes. I should know. It's happened before.

While I'm still asking the 9-1-1 operator "Is this just an anxiety attack?" I can hear the sirens.

By now I'm lying down because everything is dark and shaky and my chest hurts. "This is some anxiety attack."

The door opens and in comes Apma and his nephew, who is also a volunteer fireman and medical first responder. No, they're not the paramedics... just happened to see the ambulance and think the worst, so came on over. The paramedics are behind them. (Those paramedics are greats guys and gals, and seriously don't get enough credit.)

Next thing I know I've got a stethoscope down my shirt and I hear Paramedic 1 say, "She's wheezing," and pops a mask on my face with the glorious Ventolin. (It's awesome: helps you breathe and makes you just a little high. I think it's my new drug of choice.) Of course I have to ask, "Am I having an anxiety attack?" (I'm starting to get a little obsessed at this point.) "No, you're just having a little reaction."

Paramedic 2 helps me out, as we get ready to go to the hospital, by getting the pull-ups for my son's sleepover party. (Hey, I can multi-task whenever I want to.) And to maintain my last shred of dignity, I insist on walking out to the ambulance. On my way out, my most pressing thought is "Should I bring my laptop and camera? Hmmmm. This might be worth getting some pics of, and it's gonna be boring at the ER.... I should really bring my laptop." But for some reason they're hustling, and I'm a pushover.

We're then in the ambulance driving back to town. "Watch it! Slow down!" P1 yells to P2 as we're bouncing all over the place. "It's okay. It's just our road. It really sucks." I told him. "Nevermind!" he yells back to her.

"Do we have to have the siren on? Please don't turn the siren on!" They're nice enough to comply. "This is so embarrassing." I'm not easily embarrassed, but for some reason medical things are embarrassing, and I hate hate hate the attention. I'm also embarrassed and shamed by physical frailty, I think, and probably why I despise the fibro so much. I probably should have been obsessing about what this is all going to cost, but we recently got on a medical and drug plan, so I let that one go.

Luckily, once I got to the ER I wasn't in for very long. (And bonus: I didn't have to have my shirt cut off me this time.) A couple of hours turnaround. Antihistamines and steroids are offered. I hesitate. The nurse is patient. I'm not sure I want the steroid because I know a side effect is weight gain. But then I figure just one won't hurt. (Isn't this how issues start? With just one? Oh well. Doomed if you do, doomed if you don't.)

At last I leave, a full 4 hours after the first sting. I'm dopey from the antihistamines and still a little high from the (wonderful!) Ventolin. But all that's going through my head is "I had a full day [without Evan] to paint and do fix-up stuff around the house... now it's blown!" Because I figure now is not the best time now to start fiddling with the wiring. Yes, I have to replace a broken light switch. So I called it a wash and decided to take the rest of the day off, which is very difficult for someone who likes to stay busy.

I did a little post-incident research and found, to my very great surprise, that I had 8 of the 10 symptoms of anaphylactic reaction. I did NOT know I was allergic to bees. I now have to carry an epi pen. (Those previous incidents of being stung and passing out were minor reactions, a sign of my body developing an allergy. It's thoughtful that way.)

My thoughts today are pretty much about how much I hate nature. And my body hates me. It's a hate-fest.

(So, what's the morale of the story? When in doubt, take benedryl. Good for any occasion. Except driving and operating large farm equipment.)