Moral of this story is: don’t mess with stinging insects. (Photo by author)
We live with all sorts of varmints in neighborhood. They are mostly four-legged furry neighbors, but we also have birds, and quite a few six and eight legged visitors. For the most part we don’t bother them, and they ignore us. It’s a great relationship, at least on our part.
But last Sunday I had an encounter with one of our varmints that sent me to the Urgent Care Center 36 hours later. As I go upstairs I put my hand on the banister. Suddenly I felt a sharp sting. I screamed, of course before going downstairs to get some ice cubes to ease the pain. I didn’t bother to see what stung me, but whatever it was had a horrific sting. Yes, I probably should have said it hurt. The point is I didn’t look to see what it was. The next morning, I found a dead bee on the floor below the stairs.
I put some ice on my hand, my right hand of course as that’s the one I use most. I found some ointment intended to ease stings and smeared it on my hand as we went out the door to dinner.
But the spot was itching like crazy. There’s an old-wife’s tale that says if it itches, it’s getting better. Don’t believe it. I tried not to scratch, but it itched so bad I thought maybe that would make it get better sooner. I caught myself scratching all night, got up each time to put more ice on it and went back to sleep. The next time my whole hand was swollen and bruised, but I figured I brought that on. When I awoke on Tuesday morning, my index finger of my right hand looked like it had a pond of blood under the skin.
At that point every doctor in town was busy so I went to Urgent Care. I was delighted with their professional staff, the cleanliness of the facility, and the short wait time. It’s an infection, I got a shot, and was sent home with medicines.
On the way home, I thought of the immense changes in medicines over the years. When I was a child, my mother would have taken me to the drug store where one of the druggists would have handed over a potion and a bottle of pills.
When anyone stubbed a toe or mashed a finger, my dad dug into his pocket and pulled out his pocket knife. While I never told him when that happened to me, I know he took his pocket knife and drilled a tiny hole at the end of the nail. A drop or two of blood spurted out, then the nail stayed on the toe or finger nail.
One of my grandmothers believed strongly in Vicks Vapor Rub while the other one swore by Mentholatum. Thanks goodness they lived forty-five miles apart and seldom if ever were both there at the same time my brother or I were sick.
The swelling in going down on my hand and palm. It still itches, but if mother knew what she was talking about, my finger is getting so much better.
Guess who I’m calling today? I’ll get on the waiting list for an exterminator.