The pain is mostly gone after a marathon sleep session.
Yesterday I was starting to wonder if I'd come back
from my trip with malaria, hepatitis, or some kind of
foul intestinal funk. Probably just ate some bad Chinese
food. I woke up early in the morning and came completely
uncorked at both ends, felt slightly feverish and weak
for the whole day, which I spent on or near the sofa.
Spent about 21 hours of the last 24 lying down, sleeping
or thereabouts. Feeling much better today.
Still there's some kind of-not a rash, exactly-but
some...marks on my skin, small reddish bumps
like mosquito bites that itch like hell sometimes, mainly
at night. Maybe I'm allergic to something, but what?
Coffee is ready. I'm up at 5:20 am. I never get up
this early-it's only possible today because I couldn't
sleep any more. Gonna try to do some morning errands,
tackle this pile of laundry (everything I own is dirty).
Pay bills...And take a shit post haste. Hope it's a
solid one.
5:45 a.m.
Update-it was soft, but quick and painless. Probably
the coffee.
29 January-
Went to a dermatologist to inspect this "rash" or whatever
you call this shit that is robbing me of more and more
sleep these days. Without giving me even a quick look-over,
the worthless S.O.B. told me it was an allergy, and
that it was my job now to "pay attention and try to
figure out what's causing it." And I paid him for that
wisdom.
Been using a cortisone cream for the itching, which
has not been effective and doesn't attack the root of
the problem anyway. Need to see another dermatologist.
2 February, Groundhog Day-
I saw another dermatologist and he has diagnosed me-correctly,
I believe-as having scabies. He checked me out and came
to his diagnosis quickly. Apparently mine is a typical
case. He even showed me pictures from his dermatology
book, and the marks looked exactly like mine, in the
same places.
Scabies-the very name conjures up dread memories
of grammar school, when the school nurse used to come
in and check our scalps with a big magnifying glass.
I had no idea what scabies was then, but I knew it had
to be awful because they always got lumped together
with head lice. The nurse was there to look for lice
and scabies, scabies and lice. I knew what lice were,
and it followed that scabies was just another kind of
cooties, which was very bad news in those days.
At any rate, I was mostly relieved to hear that I had
scabies. Now my enemy has a face.
And what a face it is! Dear God they're horrible little
bastards. I used to wish they weren't microscopic, so
I could see my enemy, look it in the eye and know exactly
what I was up against. Not anymore--that picture changed
everything. They are ugly and mean, and if they were
even one-tenth my size, I would hand them my wallet,
the keys to my house, my firstborn son...
A photomicrograph of a female
Sarcoptes Scabiei. Two eggs are visible
at bottom. Apparently somebody thought
she was cute.
And that book! As the doctor was flipping through
it to find the scabies pictures, I caught glimpses of
lots of other skin maladies--people with all sorts of
terrible disfigurements, flesh being devoured, burned,
chafed and generally wasted by a legion of microscopic
assailants. When he said I had only scabies, I wanted
to buy him dinner.
He gave me some Lindane ointment for it, but I wasn't
clear on his instructions as to its proper use. I'm
just going to smear it all over everything for the next
seven days, which seemed to be the good doctor's instructions,
as near as I could figure.
6 February-
Peace. Sleeping well. Ran out of cream so I went back
for more. I shook the doctor's hand. I told him that
the little buggers seem to be "responding" to the lotion
I've put on by dying in droves, a weird subcutaneous
massacre.
Today peace, but is it a lull? Are they just trying
to make me feel relaxed, get my guard down so they can
launch a massive counterattack, which would be savage
and ruthless and would no doubt be driven my a mad sense
of revenge for my having killed so many of their brethren,
who lie buried in the Flanders fields of my armpits,
thighs and belly?
8 February-
Feeling good, but I still need to go to war in this
house. I'm sure (Is it paranoia?) they are still here,
lying low, waiting in the wings, in the carpet, the
rug, waiting, licking their disgusting little chops.
12 February, 3:17 a.m.
Can't sleep. The bastards seem to be back, and rightly
so. I did some scabies research on the Internet. Along
with the Lindane saturation bombing, I was to carefully
wash all my clothes and bedsheets in very hot water
and hang them in the sun for a day or two, which is
hard to do when there is neither sun nor washing machine.
I think I re-infected myself.
How much longer? Scabies has been called "The Seven
Year Itch". If I had to deal with this shit for seven
years I'm sure I would kill someone, probably myself.
The journals I've read list all the symptoms, but they
all fail to mention the most ominous and damaging one:
madness. Stark raving lunacy that makes you jump out
of bed at three in the morning and scream at invisible
enemies while you scratch yourself bloody.
It seems the only way to get rid of the pain is to
get drunk, which of course will invite lots of other
problems if I do it every day. Should pick up a Bible
somewhere and re-read the Book of Job. Might make me
feel better, put things in perspective. That guy had
problems. If memory serves, I think his skin
got pretty fucked-up too...
14 February, 3:50 a.m.
Slept only two hours or so, which doesn't seem too
bad if I consider it a long nap.
I've been too busy at work to clean all my clothes
and the house, so I've been putting off the second Lindane
assault. And going mad.
I've got you under my skin-who sang that, Bennett,
Sinatra? What the hell was that moron thinking?
Has he ever had another living creature under his skin?
It itches like hell and drives you insane. Maybe that's
what he was talking about after all, but I'll bet he
didn't lose a lot of sleep over it-scratching himself
raw and drinking gin and soda at four in the morning
on weekdays...Remember to let her under your skin/then
you'll begin to make it better...What absolute fucking
nonsense.
Scabies are insidious. During the day, it's easy to
forget about them, they leave you in peace and save
their energy for nighttime, which is when they become
hyperactive-wild dance parties, orgies, egg laying and
a general rave-up under the skin. It hurts like hell,
the scratching I mean, which I am forced to do robotically,
unconsciously, reduced to a beast, like a dog whose
scratch reflex goes on auto when you touch that magic
spot on its belly.
[There follows an extremely vulgar paragraph, which,
when stripped of the expletives, can be boiled down
to "I can't sleep"]
15 February
"The itching is caused by an allergic reaction to the
fecal matter, which the mites deposit under the skin."-I
felt like shit before I read that; now I understand
quite clearly that I have, in fact, become a cesspool.
I feel like I'm dancing the limbo, only they can't
get the stick low enough.
16 February, 4:05 a.m.
Just now a cockroach ran across my floor. Hi there,
little fella! They never before seemed so benign,
like an old friend coming over for coffee. They don't
do anything for me, but they don't seem to get in the
way either. He's lucky he crossed me today, after scabies
has given me sensitivity training, a dose of bug perspective.
[Mostly unintelligible passage]...the environmental
protectionists who say we must protect every species...they
go to great lengths to save the spotted owl, the bald
eagle, the California condor...do they worry that scabies
too might disappear, a once-proud species that roamed
the wild epidermis? Or do they dream (as I do) of eradicating
every one of their miserable numbers forever from the
face of the earth? Do they just wish to protect those
species they deem cute, necessary, or somehow worthwhile?
What about mosquitoes? Lying in bed on sweaty summer
nights with those little monsters buzzing in my ears,
I am whipped into a state of crazed genocidal madness,
stalking the room like a berserker with a bloodstained,
rolled-up newspaper in one hand and a spraycan full
of poison in the other. I've often wondered how the
disappearance of every mosquito in the world would impact
global ecosystems. Even if their extinction crept way
up the food chain and meant the disappearance of every
spider, spotted owl, Sumatran rhino...at four o'clock
on a Monday morning I would gladly pay that price. Fuck
biodiversity.
Is anyone mad enough to even consider a "Protect the
Anopheles Mosquito" campaign? Show me that bastard and
I will beat him senseless with a rolled up newspaper.
What about cockroaches, does anyone like them? I remember
that Archie guy, that old newspaper column that was
ghostwritten by a cockroach who used to come out at
night and bang around on a typewriter. Nice try, but
I'm not buying that shit. Kill them all. What good are
they? Do they have any redeeming qualities whatsoever?
What is the standard for acceptance? Must every creature
have a value or a redeeming quality? Is protecting
biodiversity just code for "Let's protect the useful
or harmless species...okay, and the cute
ones too..." Wipe out polio and they throw a parade
in your honor, but God help you if you kill a gray whale,
even if you only did it because you were hungry.
People get mad at the Japanese because they hunt whales,
but why are whales any better than mosquitoes? What's
the difference? We like whales, and why? How many people
have even seen a live whale? What do they contribute
to this great planet of ours? Mosquitoes at least feed
a hell of a lot of spiders, which in turn feed higher
predators. A whale is only good for making oil lamps
and baleen corsets, both of which went out of style
years ago. Even the meat isn't that good-it's too oily,
like eating a giant anchovy.
Madness.... Unrelenting itching fucks your head
completely. I can't think. I scratch myself silly...frenzied
state. I have been reduced to a vegetable. Or, I wish
I could be a vegetable. Scabies don't eat vegetables.
Or do they? Are vegetables suffering in silent
madness with no mouths to scream and no fingers to scratch
themselves? The horror...
17FEB???
I am the moon and the stars and the sun. I am your
universe-the air your breathe, the food you eat,
the earth beneath your pseudopodia. I am your hometown.
I am a nursery, a love shack, a mobile maternity ward...This
ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin'
around... My belly a metropolis, my arms a faraway
city. I am mountains and valleys and plains and forests.
Yesterday I was life, and today I am become death, destroyer
of worlds.
And I have to pay the rent or we'll all be out on the
street. Should return these bottles first.
18 February
Yesterday was scabies Armageddon day. I covered myself
with Lindane-pretty toxic shit-and washed the hell out
of everything I own. Woke up, showered, and put on fresh
clothes, being careful not to sit on the sofa (which
I vacuumed, along with everything else) until at least
two days pass (which is the longest the mites can live
away from the body.) Die, bastards.
21 February
Four days after Armageddon. Apart from some lingering
paranoia, I'm feeling good. I'm sleeping peacefully.
The marks have cleared up. Maybe soon my friends will
start hanging out with me again. I think I can say with
certainty that they are gone for good--the scabies,
I mean.
Going out to hang some garlic on my door. I'll keep
this rotten picture (see above) on the computer
desktop. Maybe it will serve as a kind of talisman.
Like the people who refuse to have their photos taken
because they believe it somehow traps their soul. Maybe
I have robbed the little bastards of theirs. Or let
it serve as a severed head on a pike outside the savage
general's camp. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here...
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