Sonovabitch

Went downstairs
Getta glassa cider
There I saw the bedbug
Foolin’ around with the spider
And then
Went down agin
Getta glassa gin
Sonovabitchin bedbug
Doin’ it agin

One of these days I’ll figure out how to put sound files (like, me singing, eek) on these posts.

Sonofabitch.  Two weeks ago, or maybe three, I don’t know, time is all mashed up these days–I had steroid injections in both shoulders.  Hurt like a sonofabitch, but what to do, my xrays look just like those mace things the barbarians used to swing on chains, in order to bash people’s heads in.  I mean, they have these bumps and stickers growing out of the ball part oft the joint, diving into my ligaments and muscles and cartilage and whatever else they could stick into.

My left shoulder felt real good after a couple of days.  Right one, not so much, but better, I’ll take better.

No pain meds, we don’t do pain meds anymore, don’tcha know.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning to find that I couldn’t get out of bed the normal way. 

I sure started to, but the pain in my left shoulder gave me those black spots in my eyes and I had to lie back down and contemplate for a while.

After a suitable interval, and largely because my dog was standing by the door with her legs crossed, looking sad, I hove around and slid out of the sack, grabbing onto the towel rack (remember I live in a tiny RV where things are all squashed together) with my right hand YOW! 

Sonofabitch.  The right one too.

As if the cortisone wore off of both of them, synchronized, just like that.

I guess that is what happened.

So now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

This was my second set of injections.  So I did a little reading on the topic, and found that each injection can poke little holes in the shoulder cartilage, until eventually you need a joint replacement.

Uh, no.

But even worse, doing nothing will eventually lead to a joint replacement.

Mmmmm…..no, no likee.

Gotta find me a good acupuncturist.  I know one in Tucson.

Hell, I am a good acupuncturist, just real hard to hit those points on the upper back.

But sonofabitch, I’m stuck in Western North Carolina.

I had big plans to start heading West last week, but being a weather buff, I looked at the maps and said “nope.”

Good thing, because I would have headed right into that bad line of tornados and mayhem.

Driving around doing random errands, I scraped the bottom of my RV on a sharply angled driveway, and next place I camped I noticed nasty stuff pouring out the bottom of the rig.

Shit.

That’s what it was.

Somehow that minor scrape opened up a pipe joint (hey, that sounds good) in the sewage system.  All well and good, since I was parked at an RV repair joint..rollll another one…

But no.  It was a couple days before Christmas, and nobody was working.

I called RV repair joints all the way to Florida and the Midwest.  Same story.

But good news!  I got an appointment for this coming Wednesday!  Only eight days I will have been hanging around here.

But bad news, if they can’t fix it on the spot…it’s my home, you know…And if they take out stuff in the sewer system, that’s real bad, because I use it…a lot…between the fucking lithium that causes me to pee every five minutes to the Crohn’s that goes in cycles, but when it goes, it GOES…

Well, my full-timers rider on my RV insurance will pay for a rental car and a hotel room if my rig is out of service, but sonofabitch, I don’t even have a single one of my vast suitcase collection with me.

Why would I?  I live like a turtle.  All my stuff goes with me, wherever I go. 

Just another small conundrum.  The RV life is never dull.

In the meantime I’m stuck here in beautiful (not) Marion, North Carolina, where there isn’t even a Cracker Barrel.  That’s how small it is.

But it does have a rental car place, which got me all excited till I called them up, and the rental agent told me sadly that they don’t have any cars at the moment.

Oh, and there isn’t any lodging here, either, not even a Motel 6.

Oh well, something will turn up.

My mother, who lives 45 minutes from here in a place that makes Marion look like a booming metropolis, offered to come and get me.

Noooooooooooo!   I’ll sleep in the woods first.  Have done so before.

In the meantime, I’m back in bed, writing this on my phone with one finger and trying to keep from moving, so I don’t hurt my shoulders.

Atina the Malligator has her 70 pound self draped across my legs, warm and heavy, sweetly sleeping, but still scanning the environment with her ears: they are always on duty.

She is a sweet treasure, my Atina.  Living in close quarters, we grow more and more in sync with each other.  She doesn’t like to let me out of her sight, so I just tie her leash around my waist, and she is content to go where I go, do what I do.

I think that’s the way dogs and their people are meant to be.  Together all the time.

If I’m somewhere safe, without cars or people or other dogs, I let her off the leash.  She still sticks close, but the difference is, she carries a toy around with her and bugs the shit out of me to throw it for her.

Which I have no problem with, except my bum shoulders don’t allow for long throws; which means in two seconds she is back with the blasted toy, wanting me to throw it again.

Where is the ten year old kid when I need one?  They could throw the damn ball while I’m busy, then disappear till I need them again.

But I’m happy to see her all waggy and full of doggie joy, so I throw and curse, throw and curse, until I see she’s had enough.

Sonofabitchin bedbug
Doin’ it agin

Only One Wish Besides That One

I haven’t been writing much lately.  I haven’t been doing anything at all much, lately.

In fact, I’m not sure I’ve even been much aware of the passage of time.

There are markers of time that I follow, like scratches on prison walls.

Yesterday I went to Asheville, to the women writers’ workshop.  I heard some good writing from other members, and I read a couple of chapters from my new-old novel.  It scares me.

Saturday was Shabbat, so I know what happened then: I read the Torah portion in Hebrew, and slept.

I know today is Monday, because I was eagerly anticipating putting my new gym membership into action.

However, the channa dal tikka masala biryani whatever, that I ate from the hot bar at Whole Foods, sent me packing to the outhouse most of the day.  That was terrifying as well as uncomfortable, because it was windy.  Some of you may recall what happened to my outhouse last time it got really windy, but for those of you who don’t remember, it looked like this:

potty over the cliff

This is what my poor outhouse looked like when the wind blew it over the edge of the cliff that it sits on.  The only way the honey-dipper (that’s what the people who clean out outhouses are called, no lie) could get to it was to haul it with ropes down to the bottom of the cliff and get it onto his truck from there.

So when it’s really windy I just don’t like to go in there.

That was the highlight of today.

There was a tedious form for the insurance company regarding the theft of my car back in August, that had to be filled out again even though I already filled it out, because the first time I filled it out I was in Israel, and the American insurance company insisted that it be notarized, but there is no such thing as a “Notary Public” in Israel.  That is difficult for American insurance people to understand, that things could be different in another country, that something that we take for granted in America, like cheeseburgers for instance, do not even exist in some other countries, like Israel.

So they are making me fill out this minutely descriptive form about where and when and how much and what time and with whom my car was stolen and wrecked by this criminal with a blood alcohol level of 0.5 that’s oh-point-five, ladies and gentlemen.  That is technically incompatible with life.  This man was clearly a career drinker.

Thank god he did not kill or seriously injure anyone.  He was too drunk.  He allegedly passed out in the passing lane on the highway, and when a passing ambulance driver saw him slumped over the steering wheel and tapped on the window to see if there was anybody home, the guy stomped on the gas and caromed off of four other vehicles, the last being a rear-ender, which stopped him.  He was taken to hospital, and from there to jail, where he remains.

But I was not there for any of this.  I was in Israel, supposedly for the High Holy Days, but in fact I was struggling just to stay alive.

(Oh, my car, if anyone was wondering, was parked in my cousin’s apartment complex parking lot, where I have left it several times before while I’ve been in Israel.  This is the first time it has ever been stolen from there.)

Just after my car was stolen and all of that madness of faxes and PDFs and arguments about whether there was or was not a notary public to be found in all of Israel, and during which time I had the horrible discovery that I had bed bugs in my new-old apartment, I happened to trip on my way into a hardware store, and knocked myself out cold.  I got what has proven to be a rather bad concussion out of that.

The High Holidays came and went, and I am sure that I came and went with them, but I do not remember any of it.  All I remember was an abiding sense of loss that I just could not get spiritually “plugged in” to the incredible high that has always filled me with awe during the High Holy Days.  My body was there, but my soul felt locked out.

Much of the time my head felt too scrambled to manage going to services.  This grieved me even worse, because my congregation in Israel is as ecstatic as any tent revival.  And I was on the outside looking in, scratching off the days on the outside walls.

I think this concussion is still not quite gone.  At least, I am sure that I am not quite right.  I notice things about my memory that really do make it look like Swiss cheese.  Holes.

And then there is my psychiatrist.

At our last visit he took an hour to examine the mechanisms that turn the cogs of my brain, something with springs and gears and levers, all run by a mouse with a spiral tail that provides the energy for the whole thing to work.  Or not.   More not than yes.

He (psychiatrist, not mouse) is certain that I have ADD.  This makes the third time he has send me away with yet another dosage form of Dexadrine.  I do not like speed.  I have tried it.  I have had it put into my LSD without my knowledge or consent.  I do not like it, Sam I Am.

But he prescribed it so I did try it.  It made me irritable.

So much so, that when my dear sweet Noga peed on the rug even though she knows very well where she is meant to, and must, pee when indoors (on her special “potty pad” from Walmart, is where)–I was so irritable that instead of merely blotting up the pee spot with paper toweling while grumbling my displeasure, instead I blotted up the pee by jumping up and down on the paper towels and screaming.

Although this was extreme, I do think that Noga got the point, and I hope it will be some time or perhaps not at all, that she thinks of peeing in the wrong place.  She is a very intelligent Apso, and she knows the difference.

I think that part of my general state of disorientation has to do with my utter lack of vocation, and therefore complete lack of any sense of purpose.  I am in a state of suspended animation.

If I could have one wish, aside from the wish that my child should live a healthy, long, productive, happy life, if I could have one wish beside that one, it would be: to have a healthy brain, and to be happily back at work again, up to my elbows in pediatric secretions, contentedly fixing Nursemaid’s Elbows, consulting my crystal ball and waving my magic wand.

If only. One.  Wish.

 

The Bed Bug Chronicles Parte The Seconde

…in which we continue our woeful tale of The War of the Bed Bugs.bed-bugs

The Big Shot Professional exterminator made off with my infested camping cot and 200 shekels (approximately 65 US Dollars), leaving me with a completely empty apartment…or was it?  I strongly suspected that in folding up said cot, he had dumped some unwanted guests onto the quarry stone floor.  There were deep gaps between the quarries, which could harbor anything.

So I got out the bleach.  In Israel we don’t have wimpy 1% sodium hypochlorite bleach like we do in America.  We have 5%, which burns through rubber gloves, shreds clothing, and makes your eyes water as soon as you open the bottle.

I dumped enough into a bucket of water to kill anything, or so I thought, and swilled it around the stone floor, letting it fill the cracks between the stones.  Then I turned on the fan and got out of there.

After a severe coughing spell that threatened to activate my stress incontinence, I ambled over to my favorite coffee den in the Shuk to think things over and decide what my best course of action was.  Actually, my choices were few and none.  I couldn’t go back to Ron’s, seeing that he was also infested; and I really couldn’t visit myself on any of my other friends because of the risk of contagion: the little beasts conveniently travel in the seams of your clothes, the soles of your shoes–not to mention your luggage.  Damn, I was stuck.

I hit upon one good idea: the apartment came with a flat tarred roof that extended over three buildings.  I had access to it via an Arab-built wooden ladder that my landlord, a contractor, had doubtless saved from one of his many construction projects.  In Israel, the construction industry is almost exclusively run by Arabs. Instead of scaffolding they often use purpose-built ladders, which are abandoned, in many instances, after they are no longer needed.  They are sturdily built, reminding me of the ladders that the Pueblo Indians use for getting up and down the levels of their dwellings.  Mine was perfect for getting up to the roof.

There are two things that reliably kill bed bugs: dry heat above 145 degrees Fahrenheit, and prolonged freezing temperatures.  So after my coffee I went next door to the variety store and bought a bunch of black plastic bags, the better to cook bugs in.  I went home and loaded my clothes and anything else that could take high heat into these bags and hauled them up to the roof.  Also my luggage and my dog’s doggie travel carrier.  I must have made 25 trips up and down that damn ladder.  Let’s not forget that I was still suffering from the concussion I got from taking one on the chin, and it was becoming apparent that I had “done something” to my right shoulder in the same wreck, so I had to be extra careful on my excursions up and down the ladder.

Did I mention that the ambient temperatures were hovering around 40 Centigrade/104 Fahrenheit?  Well, they were.  Good for killing bedbugs, bad for people on Lithium.  I was feeling it.

Finally everything I owned was either on the roof baking or in the freezer freezing.  I wondered if my external hard drive would survive freezing, but since it certainly would not live through broiling I thought the freezer was the better risk.

As I stood there wheezing in the bleach fumes, it occurred to me that I no longer had a bed.  My Israeli mattress, a 3 inch thick strip of hard foam, was on the roof baking.  The Professional Expert Exterminator had pronounced that to be unnecessary, but I was taking no chances.

Under normal circumstances, I would have simply tossed the mattress on the floor until I could get some semblance of a bedstead; but Jerusalem quarry stones are not only very hard, but uneven and pointy in many places.  Not only that, but the proximity to my bleach job might melt the foam, and kill me via asphyxiation.

Then came one of those “lightbulb moments.”  Indeed, I did have a bedstead!

Three years ago, I was forced by family circumstances to give up my long-term lease on a beautiful house in the same neighborhood.  A very sweet couple moved in, and I had left them my bed; but they had their own, and they were storing mine–for when I returned to Jerusalem for good.

I called them, and within the hour had my old bed back.  Tears of gratitude welled in my eyes–or was it just from the bleach?

Nightfall, and I hauled myself back up the ladder for the last time that day, to fetch my mattress down.  Something nagged at me, paranoia perhaps, that I should run down to Davidka Square and buy myself a brand new mattress wrapped in plastic, but then again I had had the cover off of this one and inspected all the seams for signs of bed bug poo, and eggs, and all of the signs and symptoms of infestation, and found none.  I told myself firmly to have confidence in my own expertise, and plunked the mattress on my good old bedstead.

This wasn’t just any bedstead.  I had bought it in 1989, just after my ex-husband moved out and took every stick of furniture in the apartment with him (he was moving into an unfurnished apartment, you see), including the bed.  So I invested in this wonderfully simple bedstead made of hardwood slats, that came apart and went together in a few minutes’ time, perfect for the young upwardly mobile professional lifestyle.

The first night was blissfully bugless.  I awoke, anxious, and checked myself over for new bites; and finding none, rejoiced.  Even my dog was scratching less.  She is allergic to everything, and, as I found out later, bed bugs feed on anything with blood in it, including warm-blooded animals.   I took her food out of the freezer, and took myself out for Israeli Breakfast to celebrate.  If you haven’t had Israeli Breakfast, you haven’t had breakfast.  I will tell you all about Israeli Breakfast another time.

It is with great sadness that I must inform you that the third morning dawned with a peppering of itchy welts.  I freaked out.

I called Sammy.

Sammy showed up the next morning with a backpack sprayer and a respirator mask.  Now, I thought with satisfaction, we’ll get something done about this.  I stood guard over his van, which he had left in a tow-away zone, while he did his thing.  He came running out of the apartment followed by a noxious white cloud, coughing through his mask.  Jesus, I thought, what the hell did he spray in there?  I didn’t care, as long as it killed the damn bugs.

I was told to abandon the place for three hours, and then wash the floors very well.  VERY well, he said, looking significantly at Noga, my dog.  Sammy raises champion Pekingese, and knows what dogs can handle and what they can’t.

I left the apartment to air out for eight hours instead of three, just for good measure; then I went after the floors with a vengeance.  I washed them VERY well.  But I did NOT wash the bedstead.  I wanted anything lurking in there to be DEAD.  And so it was that as I was inspecting the bed, a very sick bed bug tottered out of one of the joints of the headboard.  It looked like its shell was melting.  Ugh, and GOOD.  Death to you!  Death!  And then another one, fat with my blood, dragged itself out from beneath one of the legs.  Oh. My. God.  Even now the hair stands up on the back of my neck to think of….what it…..had certainly done….

To be continued……

The Bed Bug Chronicles

Five years ago, if anyone had asked me what I knew about bed bugs, I would have shrugged my shoulders and stared at them blankly.  Now, unfortunately, that is not the case.  I’ve had much more experience with bed bugs than I can stand.  I know that others have had, and unfortunately are still having, far worse experiences than mine; but you have to understand that mental illness makes it much harder to deal with the anxiety and downright horror an infestation of these nasties can cause.  And there is plenty of reason to believe that if you don’t have a mental illness before you get bed bugs, you may very well acquire one.  There are numerous articles in the psychology and psychiatry journals speculating whether latent mental illness can be triggered by the severe stress and distress that bed bugs cause.

In fact, I just read a case study from the National Institutes of Health documenting the suicide of a woman with mental illness for whom a prolonged bed bug infestation was just the last straw.

Any of you who have had to deal with these disgusting creatures will agree: in the “gross!” department, it doesn’t get much grosser.  They bite you in the middle of the night, when you are asleep and defenseless.  You can’t even feel them biting, because first they inject you with a dose of local anesthetic so you won’t feel their proboscis piercing your skin.  Try to starve them by going on extended vacation; they laugh!  They can live up to a year without feeding.

I asked my rabbi who was responsible for the creation of bed bugs, anyway.  His response?

Hell.”

 

bed-bugs

Oh man, do I agree with him.

My first bed bug experience was four years ago.  I was a patient at an Ayurvedic hospital in South India.  I was extremely ill with a digestive malady that turned out to be a rare form of Cystic Fibrosis.  I had lost 20 lbs because all of the food I ingested came right out the other end (sorry), and I was literally starving.  Regular medicine had decided that I was some kind of crank, so I was getting no care from that quarter.

The Ayurvedic hospital was heaven on earth.  Located high in the mountains of Tamil Nadu, the hospital itself was situated in the middle of a vast tea plantation. Did you know that tea comes from a Camellia bush, Camelia Sinensis?  Well, let me tell you, when hundreds of thousands of Camellia bushes are all in flower, the night smells just like the fragrance the angels smell when they come out to sing in the morning.

But let’s get back to the subject at hand.

One morning I woke up with itchy bumps on my neck.  They looked like this:

My First Bed Bug Bites

My First Bed Bug Bites

 

Note the peculiar proximity to my jugular vein.  My first thought was, Damn, they have accurate mosquitos here.  Then I thought, Hmmm, it said in the brochure that they don’t have mosquitos here.  That’s why you don’t have to worry about malaria like you do everywhere else in India.

The following morning, my neck looked as if someone had taken a pastry wheel (the kind with sharp spokes, for poking holes in pie crusts) and run it up and down my neck a few times–and horrors! my pillow was covered in splats of blood, to match the holes in my neck!!!  OMG.

I ran down to the dining room to see if anybody there could tell me what this was.  A woman from New York gave me a knowing look and pulled some pictures up on the communal computer: yup, no question.  Those were bed bug bites.

I roared into my doctor’s office, panting, and blubbered out my story, spewing tears and snot.  He patted me on the hand and told me it was OK.  It was NOT OK.  I dragged him up the hill to my cottage and showed him the hideous pillow.  He yelled for the servants to come and give me a new mattress.  I barked orders to also clean the bed frame very well, very well.  The staff did not speak English, so I implored Doctor-ji to please, please explain to them.  I think he did, for they grudgingly took their pails full of water and crude eucalyptus oil (I was later to discover why they used eucalyptus oil) and swabbed down the bed frame.

I always travel with my own goose down pillows, because I have two fused vertebrae in my neck, and I have to have the right pillow in order to not be in agony.  So I stuffed my poor pillows into the washing machine (“for the convenience of the guests”) and set it on 90 degrees Celsius, which is just short of boiling.  I won’t bore you with the details of trying to get the pillows dry again, because “for the convenience of the guests” the hospital did not have a dryer, and it was monsoon season, freezing cold and raining most of the time.  Previously, I had thought it entertaining to watch the staff hanging the sheets out on the topiaries to dry, only to snatch them back inside the next moment because it had begun to rain again.  Needless to say, I no longer found that entertaining, now that I was doing it myself.

I fought the bed bug battle for weeks.  Changing the mattress changed nothing.  I moved to a new cottage.  They were there too.  Eventually I learned that  the locally made (and very crude) essential oil of eucalyptus repelled the little bastards, and by soaking the bed and covers every night before retiring, I could get a night’s sleep without worrying about waking up bitten bloody.  Reeking, perhaps, but intact.

Fast forward to August, 2013.  I have just arrived to Jerusalem after a two-month absence.  In June I had rented a tiny apartment, built entirely of Jerusalem limestone quarries, quaint but suitable for my needs. I come and go often, and really just need a place to land when I’m there.

The place came unfurnished except for a large wardrobe, so I brought a large and sturdy camping cot with me from America, to stand in for a bed.  It fit nicely into a golf bag that I used to have for the purpose of flying with odd size objects.

I stayed a few days with a good friend of mine who lives half a block from my new apartment, very convenient, and got everything set up before I moved into my digs.  I’ve stayed with him countless times in the past.  He’s a dear friend whose chief failing is that he is incapable of saying “no.”

And so it was that his good friend, we’ll call him Bob, arrived from a large East Coast city with FOUR enormous duffel bags packed with STUFF.  OK, I get it that he was moving back to Israel permanently, but he was also planning to stay with my friend who can’t say no, and there was simply no room for his stuff and mine.  So I pulled my belongings out from under the pile of his bags, and packed myself off with my few possessions to my little apartment down the street.

Two days later, my friend calls me and says, quite sanguinely, “Guess what?  A big fat bed bug crawled out from under my pillow this morning, full of my blood.  I squashed the sucker.”

I broke out in a cold sweat.  I mean literally, I was suddenly drenched in sweat.  My heart was racing.  I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.  I was having a Bed Bug PTSD flashback!  No, don’t laugh, I mean it!  I couldn’t swallow.  I felt like I was going to faint, or have a seizure, or a heart attack, or die.

“Fuck, Ron,” I managed to squeeze out.  “We didn’t used to have bed bugs at your place.”

“Yeah, I know.  I’m thinking Bob.  He lived in this fleabag room full of roaches and God knows what else.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Uh, what was the name of that exterminator you had over to get rid of the fleas?”   My apartment had been full of fleas when I moved in, so I got Sammy the Exterminator and he took care of it.  I gave Sammy’s details to Ron and closed my phone, still shaking.

Shit, all my stuff had been lying at the bottom of the luggage pile, literally, with Bob’s fleabag flophouse stuff on top of it.  Well, all I could do was wait and hope.

I didn’t have to wait long.  A couple of days later I woke up with bites.  Not only that, but my little dog Noga was furiously scratching.  God, I was hoping it was just the fleas again.

But it wasn’t the fleas.  The next day I found a big old bed bug dead between the camping mattress and the cot.  I picked it up in a tissue and put it in the freezer for evidence.

I didn’t call Sammy.  I didn’t like how he had handled the extermination job at Ron’s.  I’m not going to go into the technicalities of bed bug extermination, but it’s a big, long, involved, labor intensive process, and Sammy hadn’t done any of that.  So I called a big extermination company that’s supposed to be the only outfit in Israel that really knows their bed bug business.

The guy showed up in a company uniform, very official.  He took one look at my stone cave of an apartment, and said, “You can’t have bed bugs here.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Because you can’t.  I’m a professional, and I say you can’t have bed bugs here.”

I showed him my bites.  I went to the freezer and got my frozen bed bug specimen out, but when I opened the tissue it fell apart.

“That is not a bed bug,” he stated triumphantly.

“Look at all the cracks between the stones!  Look at that old wardrobe!  Look, I found that bed bug (he snorted a snort of contempt) in my bed!”

He tore the covers off my cot and announced, once again, that I could not possibly have bed bugs there because he was a bed bug expert.  Then he took his little flash light and looked into the sleeve where the tube of the cot goes through the fabric.

“You have bed bugs,” he announced officiously.

“Where?  Where?  Show me!”

He pointed his flash light into the sleeve.  I peered.  There was a whole colony of bugs in there, big ones, little ones, cast-off molted skins….I felt both triumphant and sickened at once.

We had a quick huddle about what to do, and concluded that he would take the cot away and “recycle it,” whatever that means, because if we put it in the dumpster it’s certain that someone would take it home with them, even if we marked it “bed bugs,” because that’s how it is there.  So he folded the thing up, in spite of my fears that he would dump bugs and eggs and everything into the cracks between the stones of my floor, and took it outside, announcing that it would be 200 shekels for the house call.  I shelled out 200 shek.  He stuffed it in his pocket and stumped away with my former bed.

To be continued…..