Like flesh afire.

Like limbs alight with the agony of despair.

Like acid coursing through every vein until it burns in agony from head to toe.

Like a toxin made manifest in my own blood.

Like trying to find breath in a vacuum.

Like seeing the end loom large and lurid in the light of every blink.

Sunday a wasp stung me.

A paper wasp.

What species exactly I don’t know.

The messenger means little in this regard; the message is always the same: anaphylaxis.

Ant.  Wasp.  Bee.  They all mean the same to me, to my body, to the very essence that carries me from day to day yet sees these creatures as the most deadly assault conceivable.

So here I am.

Several shots of steroids later; a veritable pharmacy of drugs flowing through me in a race against time.

Who will win?

The venom?

Or the medication?

Whatever horrific pain I feel, whatever terrible torments beset me, so far I can say the doctors have bested their opponents.

So far anyway.

It will take months for my body to mend from this torture.  The wound on my back will undoubtedly remain for some time as a reminder of how easy it is for me to meet my doom.

But I press on.  I keep going.

No matter how hard I try to avoid it, there are times when nature puts me in my place with but a simple sting.


2 thoughts on “Stung”

  1. I’m doing better. Little by little. Today’s the first day I’m attempting to work (from home) since I feel clear-headed enough to pose only a minor risk to whatever I touch. Otherwise, I’m achy and tired.

    No, I didn’t get in the wasp’s face for a photo! Very funny.

    I was walking at the lake and apparently the wasp crawled up under my t-shirt. I didn’t know it was there. When I knelt down to photograph a monarch butterfly, I guess my shirt landed on the wasp and it took that as an attack–so it stung me.

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