Bees and Dogs Smell Fear

October 22, 2014 – Bees and Dogs Smell Fear

(Part 2: To Bee)

Several things happen after I get stung by bees.

Opening up channels for the traditional medical route, I get my name added to a Tennessee health care project which provides sliding scale costs for people with low incomes.

Pursuing other options, I call a local acupuncturist to see if he does bee venom acupuncture. He doesn't, but he's intrigued and says he will research it.

I schedule an appointment for acupuncture.

I get a book called The Bible of Bee Venom Therapy: Bee Venom, Its Nature, And Its Effects on the Arthritic and Rheumatoid Conditions.

I have one session of acupuncture. It doesn't seem to make a difference, but I know these things take time, I know these methods require more than one session, I know that creating a pain management program can be a lifelong commitment. The acupuncturist tells me, “Your disease is unpleasant but not life threatening. You can have a lot of hope.”

This is true. This a good reminder.

I'm still looking for that instant fix.

When I get home, on impulse, I call the president of the Nashville Beekeepers Association. I’d gotten his number after trying to find doctors and bee venom and apitherapists in my calling frenzy of the week before. I introduce myself, explain how I got his number, and then launch into my main question, “Is it possible to buy ten or twelve bees from you?” I hold my breath for the answer. I try not to blurt out that I intend to sting myself thereby killing those ten or twelve innocent bees. I try to hold in the words that express the horror I feel on account of my own hypocrisy. I love bees. I hate killing. How can I justify the death of a bee for my own benefit? Morality, ethics, and my own belief that life is the most precious thing and should always be honored battle against my desire to be well even at the expense of others.

A lot goes unsaid in the space between my question and Joel’s response.

“What are you trying to do,” he asks, “some kind of bee sting therapy?”

“Actually,” I say, relieved and surprised, “yes.”

“Well,” he says, “you come on out here and we’ll sting you and get you all fixed up.”

“Really?!”                  

He assures me that it's no problem and there will be no cost unless I want to buy a jar of honey. I've looked at his website I know how much the honey costs. I’ll buy two. We arrange a tentative meet up and I hang up.

I call my mom with the exciting news.

I text my dad to ask for a prayer for the bees.

I've got a this is too good to be true feeling. This is what I want. This is what I've wanted to try for a while. As sometimes happens, I fear that what I want most won't come to pass, that some twist of fate will thwart me. I'm afraid that the nine miles between Joel’s house and mine will prove to be too far. After all, I don’t have my own vehicle. I have no idea how the Nashville public transportation works (even after looking at their website). And eighteen miles is quite a ways to walk even for me.

My doubt, perhaps, acts as a self-fulfilling prophecy when on the scheduled day I call to confirm the time with Joel and he tells me he's at the doctor’s with his wife who has just broken her arm. “We should be home around five or five-thirty,” he says. “I'll call you when I know.”

Not wanting to impose, trying to rearrange my ride, and wanting to avoid rush-hour traffic becomes too much to handle. Why can't things just be easy? I grouse. I have my five minutes of self-pity (which includes a phone call to my mom) and then I pull myself together.

After all that, I text Joel not to worry about today and that I hope his wife will be all right. I type out that maybe we can try again over the weekend when things have calmed down. Fatalist that I seem to be I just assume I've lost my one chance.

Of course, this is not the case.

On Friday, I go for a second round of acupuncture. The doctor increases the electrodes’ power, increases the number of needles used. After the session, I experience four hours of painlessness. I can't remember the last time that has happened. Back at the house, I sit on the couch and revel in the strangeness of, what I can only term as, silent hands. There is no background buzzing of inflammation, no throbbing pain, no lingering ache, not even the usual tightness of the joints. I sit on the couch and looked at my hands and wonder how long this will last. Although the doctor has given me a twenty percent discount I can't afford any more sessions, not if I want to keep within the budget I've set to get me through the end of the year. When the pain creeps back in I send up a silent thank you for those painless hours. I'll take whatever I can get. It's a gift.

The next day (with luck on my side after all) I make it out to Joel’s. He's watering plants when I drive up in Sarah's car.

“Amanda?” he asks.

“Joel,” I say.

We shake hands.

“You're not allergic to bees, are you?” Joel asks.

“I'm not,” I reply. And without much further ado he begins to pick bees off the rim of the five gallon containers in the back of his truck where the bees are feeding on sugar and to use them to sting me in the places I indicate. I get four stings on each hand.

The stings themselves hurt, a lancinating pain first followed by the jolt of venom hitting my system. I don't even flinch.

“That's the venom sac,” Joel says, pointing to the pulsing white bulb at the end of the stinger jutting up out of my skin. “If you mash that down you’ll get all the venom that's there.”

I mash the venom sacs with the tip of my fingers. I want the full effect. I've read the entire Bible of Bee Venom Therapy. It says that rheumatics need to be saturated with bee venom. I’m going for it all.

Joel shows me where the hives are just in case his truck isn't there with the feed buckets. He tells me I can come anytime and help myself. He says if he's there he'll help me out.

I began to believe that beekeepers might be the kindest people in the world.

As I walk back to the car, I whisper a thank you to the eight bees I've killed. A thank you doesn't cover it, but it's all I've got for now. I whisper I’m sorry, too.

I’ve been invited to dinner at my friend Erin’s house and I’m slightly embarrassed to show up with my hands all marked up and red. Though to be honest, except for the puncture marks and some radiating redness my hands look fairly normal. I tell Erin about the experience. Dinner is delicious. Back at the house, I notice my hands have started to react. Sarah is away for the weekend and I'm glad. My hands swell up to two, maybe three times their size and my relief is that she isn’t there to worry about them, about me.

I know what I’m doing. I think.

I wake up in the middle of the night. My hands itch like mad. They’re swollen and they itch like mad. I don’t scratch them. The next morning, rereading the Bible of BVT I discover what pruritus means.

I talk with my grandmother on the phone after I get an additional six stings on Sunday afternoon. “I’m going to email you a picture,” I tell her. “But you can’t freak out. The reaction is good. It looks crazy but it would be worse if I wasn’t reacting.” That’s what the Bible of Bee Venom Therapy has assured me. “The more severe the reaction the quicker the recovery,” it says.  

“I have the weirdest conversations with you,” my grandmother says.

I text the picture to my parents with the words: Don’t freak out, you guys.

Naturally, they call me on speaker phone saying, “We’re freaking out, man, we’re freaking out here!”

One of the side effects of bee venom is an increased sense of well-being. I’m feeling this even as my hands and arms look like I’ve got a fat suit on. I keep a detailed log of each sting, each reaction, each day. For this I’m patient, scientist, and doctor.

On Monday, Joel isn’t home. It’s go time. Time to prove I am up to this. I catch the bees on my own. I’m tentative, but not scared (after all, bees and dogs smell fear) as I try to pick them up between my thumb and first finger. The ones that flap their wings against my too hesitant touch make me withdraw my hand, make me have to try again. This day’s stings go to my knees and ankles. Although I’m hoping to increase up to ten or so stings this time, I only get seven. One is on my thumb. Another on my pointer finger. After that one I lose my nerve and go home. 

The finger sting hurts worse than any I’ve gotten so far.

I’m up to a total of 25 stings.

I’m sorry, bees. Thank you.

Days go by and when the venom inflammation dies down my hands look normal. It’s been a long time since that has happened. But this is a time of flux. I go each day to get stings. The venom plays its part. The swelling comes, the swelling goes down. No one is to freak out, this is what’s supposed to happen.

This therapy is one that fights inflammation with inflammation. Here’s how it works. Imagine my wrist joint is a house. One day someone (a neighborhood watcher perhaps) goes zipping by the house and thinks they see smoke and a raging fire. They call the fire department. The fire fighters arrive and begin to douse the house with water. The problem is that there never was a fire. But the fire fighters continue to spray the house down. Because of this the house gets water damage. Maybe one of the fire fighters hacks down a door or knocks out a window thinking to rescue someone inside. Damage is being done to the house’s structure. Oblivious, the fire fighters continue to fight a fire that does not exist. The good guys are doing some bad harm to that house. Now comes the bee venom. The bee venom is a friendly arsonist. This arsonist sets fires in all the trash cans that line the street. Suddenly, the fire fighters have a real fire to combat and can leave the house (aka the wrist joint) alone. But that’s not even the end. Because of the real fire other helpers become aware of the damaged house and can start to rebuild it. Finally able to see what’s been happening they can work to dry out the water damage and replace the ceiling and floors. They can start to repair all the damage that’s been done.

That’s the illustrative theory behind bee venom therapy and autoimmunity.

The goal for me is to build up an immunity to the bee venom. Somehow (magically?) this immunity goes hand in hand with healing the arthritic condition. Whether this is remission or a full blown cure will remain to be seen. Whatever happens, taking an active part in finding a solution has given me back the hope that I’d packed away some time ago.

At Joel’s invitation I attend the monthly Beekeeper Association Meeting. He puts me in touch with beekeepers who live a little closer to where I am. One of the three beekeepers has hives within walking distance. He’s just as kind and generous as Joel. His wife makes sure I have a veil to wear since I’m catching these bees straight off the hive. It’s definitely scarier that way. The first day there one of the guard bees tries to warn me off by buzzing my head (this is before Marti has secured a veil for me) but when that doesn’t work to drive me away she stings me on the leg. A sting from an angry bee has more pain juice than the self-administered ones. Or this could just be my imagination.  

I still mourn the bees. I still have a tough time reconciling their lives for my gain. But I’m working toward a cure. I’m living with hope for a pain free future. And, I haven’t had that hope in a long, long time.

To date I’ve had a total of 298 stings. I’m working to reach venom immunity before the worker bees cozy in for the winter. If I don’t quite make that, my trust is that the autoimmune inflammation will be halted enough for me to get through the winter without any more damage to my affected joints. I’ll take the supplements that will help rebuild cartilage and maybe even the bones and joints. I’ll keep up with the exercises I’ve started to strengthen my arms and provide support for my wrists.

When summer comes, if I need to, maybe I can find more bees.

I may, as Joel said, need to become a beekeeper myself.

To Bee

October 15, 2014 – To Bee

(Part 1)

I don't often write about having rheumatoid arthritis. When I think about it I feel like saying as Jennifer Aniston’s character in Office Space said, “I don't really like talking about my flair.” So I wear RA the same way she wore those buttons-- without wanting to acknowledge them. But not wanting to talk about it doesn't mean that those obnoxious buttons aren’t there, that arthritis isn’t there.

RA is a thing, a disease, a disorder I've lived with for the last eight years. Right or wrong, I’ve treated myself with a variety of natural solutions and sometimes high doses of ibuprofen. The past two years have been especially hard. My old natural tricks no longer worked to curb the chronic inflammation and pain. Weather, stress, food, and the wear and tear of life affected me in ways that were hard to predict and avoid. As each day dawned, the background noise of pain was already risen to a fever pitch. Each night I fell asleep to some varied degree of hurt. I swallowed over-the-counter painkillers when I woke up and before I went to bed to take the edge off, to be able to function.

One day, my Nashvillian friend Sarah asks me, “What are you going to do?” What am I going to do about the pain? What am I going to do about the inflammation? What am I going to do about my future? What am I going to do if things just get worse? What will happen if my joints fuse and I can no longer use my hands?

What am I going to do?

It’s a question I've been putting off answering. There seemed to be too many insurmountable considerations: health insurance, money, paperwork, checkups, doctor visits, x-rays, blood work, a life of medical surveillance, and the idea that if I really thought about it I’d have to finally move past denial and get on the hard-core RA drugs like a sensible person. I’d have to admit I was a person with a disease. Now Sarah's question forces me into a reality check. However uncomfortable, I needed that push. I realize 1. No one should live with this kind of pain, and 2. To not get relief-- traditional medicine or otherwise-- is foolish.

On the strength of that impetus, I begin to call rheumatology offices, hoping to bypass what I feel are unnecessary steps and get in straight to see a specialist. To no avail. Over and over I am told the same thing, that I’ll have to get a referral from a general practitioner. I'll have to start from the beginning.

A handful of calls later, I phone my mom to vent my frustration.

“What about bees?” she asks. We’ve talked about bees before. Several times. I’d even tried to find an apitherapist in Dallas at the beginning of the year with no luck. My grandfather, her father had cured his gout by being stung by bees when he was a beekeeper in the 1980s. If it worked for one inflammatory problem why not another?  

I query the Internet for Nashville apitherapists. The search yields no results but gives a list of naturopaths and chiropractors. Carried on by this whim, I begin calling them. Most of the receptionists have never heard of bee venom therapy. But then I get one who offers me a tidbit of hope. “I don't know,” she tells me. “The doctor is with a patient right now but I'll ask him if he does that.” She takes down my number and promises a call back.

Hours later my phone rings. It’s the doctor himself. “How did you find out that I do bee sting therapy?” he asks.

I explain my internet search.

“I helped my friend heal bursitis in his shoulder,” the doctor reminisces. “Back when I had my own hives.”

“Do you still do sting therapy?” I ask.

“I know someone who has a few hives. We could drive there from my office and get you some stings.”

We talk cost and then I schedule an appointment for the next morning. Sarah is able to loan me her car so it’s all set. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I feel bad for the bees.

The next day, I arrive early to the doctor’s office. He’s sitting at the reception desk making phone calls trying to find a specific bottle opener to buy as a wedding present. He’s having about as much luck as I was trying to get in to see a rheumatologist without a referral.

“Are you the high school student?” he asks me when he hangs up the phone.

“Um. No. I’m here for the bee sting therapy.”

“Oh, right,” he says. “I thought you were the girl here to follow Mark around.”

“No…,” I say, trailing off.

“I’ve got to find this opener,” he tells me. “It’s for a wedding. I thought I’d ordered it, but it says it’s on back order.”

“I know I’m here a little early,” I say. “I can wait.”

Twenty minutes and ten phone calls later, he gets up, grabs his keys, and we head out to the car.

The bee hives are at a walking park five minutes away. The hives are just off the path in the grass with a backdrop of shrubbery and trees, just around the bend from the parking lot.

“You wait here,” the doctor tells me, “and I’ll bring the bees over to you.”

I stand back, about twelve feet away, and wait as I’ve been told. The doctor kneels next to a hive and tries to capture a bee. Finally, he succeeds and brings the bee to where I am. I hold out my right hand and he places it on my skin and the bee stings me.

“Thank you, little bee,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Three more bees, three more stings. Two total for each hand.

We go back to the car and drive to the office. “It was really nice to be around the bees again,” the doctor says. “They have such a good energy.” He tells me a story about a friend of his who was an animal whisperer who’d whispered to his bees. The bees told the whisperer that they wished the doctor wouldn’t work on their hives in the hottest part of the afternoon, it made too much work for them to have to clean up. I listen to the story while I’m watching my hands, while I’m trying to evaluate how my body is responding to the venom. I’m not going into anaphylactic shock. I’m okay.

“How did you find out I did bee sting therapy?” the doctor asks again as he pulls into the office parking lot.

I’m beginning to think he’s a space cadet. I shrug to myself. So long as he will administer the stings, I can deal with that. “I did an internet search and your name came up.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding.

He keeps me at the office for twenty minutes to make sure I don’t have an adverse reaction and, when I don’t, I pay for the session and drive back to the house.

That evening the doctor calls to check up on me. He’s rambling some, but the gist of the conversation is that he’s not sure bee venom therapy is covered under his chiropractic care umbrella, he’s found a supplement that he thinks will help me, and that I should eat a mostly raw food diet. He takes the time to list all the ingredients he’d put in his own breakfast smoothie that very morning and which would be good for me to incorporate into my diet.

I take down the supplement name, thank him, and work my way off the phone.

The euphoria brought on by the mellitin and the apamin in the venom has worn off. This was a one time deal, I think with disappointment. It did feel a little too good to be true.

I’ve been down the supplement path before. I’ve been down the raw food path, too. I wanted the bee venom cure. I take a deep breath and let it out with deliberation. I’ll have to start over again in the morning. Rheumatologists. Health care assistance. General Practitioners. Drugs.  

I get in bed and pull the covers up over my shoulders. Wounded and sad, I cry for the pain in the world. I cry for the circle of life. I cry a little for myself. And I cry for the bees.

Where Have All the Summers Gone

September 7, 2014 – Where Have All the Summers Gone

I've started to hear people say things about how glad they are that fall is nearly here. They've begun talking about pumpkin spice lattes and Halloween decorations while I wonder where my summer went. I've lost the sense of the seasons. This has been a problem for me this whole year. For once, winter was too short. Spring I handled begrudgingly, sloshing through the melting snow of the Wyoming wilderness and cursing the rising temperatures. But then I blinked and spring was gone. When summer rolled in, wasting no time, I had no specific goal for it except to avoid the Texas cocktail of heat and humidity.

With that in mind, I went northwest. I spent a month of summer in Oregon, watched fireworks from the top of a hill on the Fourth of July, cooled my feet in the river, grilled zucchini and mushrooms on an open fire, drank blended icy lemonade on the back porch with sweat beading designs along the contours of my face. All those were summery things to do. But in retrospect they feel like brief moments from some past life, some past summer long ago.

Maybe this is because I got lost in the time between library visits. I got so wrapped up in reading about history that the future too quickly became the present then the past. All too soon, I returned my stack of library books and bid goodbye to Oregon.

By invitation I gypsyed on to Tennessee. I braced myself for the inevitable heat, humidity, and mosquitoes that come with Southern living. It wouldn't be Texas, not nearly so hot, but I prepared myself for the worst. I was pleasantly surprised. Summer in Nashville has been the pianissimo to forte fortissimo crescendo of the cicada song, the background hum of crickets. Thunderstorms and dark-edged clouds. Soft breezes that shift the humidity into ghostly, nearly tangible forms. Dragonflies hovering over fresh cut grass. Mornings spent on the front porch steps with the kitty for company. More books read. Day passing into new day.

Summer has vanished as I’ve come to grips with my year-long existential crisis and become slowly reacquainted with hope. Hope for all kinds of things. Leonard Bird in Folding Paper Cranes said, “Hope is everything.  …hope is a process, albeit not always a logical one. Hope is integral to the psyche.”

And maybe the psyche is integral to this fragile, beautiful thing called life. Maybe it's even simpler than that. Maybe it's as simple as the phrase I picked up from my dad in which he says, “Where there's life, there's hope.” It’s just a matter of recognizing it.

Maybe it’s as simple as knowing that this summer might be well gone, but there will be another one. And another one after that. Summer is vanishing, there will be pumpkin spice lattes and the observance of Halloween, and I’m okay with that. Fall has its charm. Summer may disappear, the seasons will change, and I'm already looking ahead for winter to come.