flightsgiochihigh

Tuesday, 22 July 2008.

Last year my apartment in Chicago was overtaken by bird mites. I had to abandon the apartment, and nearly everything in it.

If you're not familiar with bird mites, google will probably turn up sufficient horror stories to give you an idea of what happened. I've never told anyone just how bad it really was. Not even my husband. You can't imagine the horror and hopelessness. I'm sure it sounds like I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. I was covered in welts, and in excruciating pain. Mites, barely visible to the naked eye, crawled in and out of my nose and eyes as I tried to sleep. I washed my clothing and bedding every night because dryer heat is one of the few things that kill them. I covered my entire body in Listerine and menthol products every morning and every night, because supposedly they don't care much for the taste. I avoided standing within 10 feet of other people, whenever possible. Pest control fogged several times, but bird mites are impervious to the pyrethrins in most foggers. Nothing stopped them. I felt utterly alone and isolated, and did not know if I would have to live indefinitely this way. I could not imagine how I could keep a job, friends, or any human contact at all. I compared it once to being buried alive, and it's about the closest I can come, but it leaves a lot out. Even this is not the full story, but I'm still not comfortable talking about the full extent of what happened.

In the midst of all of this, a few people did what I am always most humbled by: they gave of themselves unselfishly to save me. My boyfriend made me drive to a cottage on a lake in Indiana, where I stripped down outside, sealed my clothing in a garbage bag, hosed off, bathed, and covered my body in Caladryl lotion, just to prove that it was possible to get clean, because if it was possible to get clean, it was possible to get out. My dad and his family sent me money to help pay for a new apartment. My friend, Don, offered to put me and my cats up in his apartment until I found a new one. And my mom offered to keep a few of my things sealed in storage in her shed for a year, a time period that we believed would kill any mites still sealed in the bags with the items. I gathered some books, CDs & DVDs, photos, and sentimental items, wiped everything I could down with bleach, sealed them in garbage bags, wiped the garbage bags down with bleach, sealed them in giant Ziploc bags, wiped those down with bleach, and then handed them off to my mom to pack in her car. And, for the first time, we didn't exchange any hugs as she got into the car to drive back to Michigan. I junked the rest of the belongings I'd accumulated over the last 38 years, hosed off, drove to Don's place, sealed and discarded the clothes I was wearing, and took the first shower of the rest of my life.

Well, it's been a year, almost to the day. Last weekend, my mom drove down from Michigan to go to Freudenfest with my husband and I, and she brought down a few of the bags from storage. She asked me which ones I wanted to start with, and I told her to bring the CDs and DVDs. They've been sitting in the garage for a few days now, and I decided today would be a good day to break the seal.

It's really hard to convey just how strange and uncomfortable this is. I am still unable to really deal with what happened on a psychological level. I am still hyper-sensitive to light breezes, soft touches, or anything else that mimics crawling sensations. When some friends we stayed with on our honeymoon told us they'd seen black widow spiders in their house before, I panicked. I refused to lie down, and when I finally did, I sobbed with the light on all night, as my husband held me. I am still pretty heavily traumatized.

As I broke the seal on the first bag today, I stopped and felt the breeze float in from outside. I pulled my hands out of the bag and examined my skin, looking for any sign of motion. I forced myself to breathe, to recognize the breeze for what it was. I pulled out a garbage bag-wrapped box, dead mite carcasses still visible under the packing tape pulled tightly around it. I ripped it open, unsealed the box, and pulled out the first item.

Saved: One DVD, "Lost in Translation"

Update for those who are curious or concerned, and would like to find out more about bird mites:

In addition to googling "bird mites," you can also google their other common aliases, "pigeon mites" and "avian mites." Birdmites.org is a good source of information.

The most important thing you can do to prevent bird mite infestation is to not allow birds to nest in or on your home. Often, the mites will feed upon young birds in the nest, then when the youngsters leave the nest, the mites migrate into the home in search of food. If you live in an apartment in an urban area where there is a high concentration of pigeons, insist that your landlord have any roosting pig

I once was watching a real life autopsy show, where the coroner was being interviewed, and she
stated that you can tell a lot about how people lived their lives by the way their hands looked.
She stated that she has seen lots of different people from all over, hands that were kept really
nice, hands that had worked, hands that were soft, hands that were in hard times, and hands
that had seen good times.

When I think at the end of my life how will the coroner view my life by the way my hands looked,
I hope it reflects all that I have done, both good and bad. Cause that’s what makes me, me.

My hands have done a lot of stuff, have felt a lot of stuff, and will still do a lot of stuff. As an
infant, my hands clung to the hand of my loving mother as she held and cradled me. My hands
held me up as I learned to crawl, reached for toys, ate, bathed myself, cleaned my teeth, prayed,
gave hugs, and looked for the hand of a father to protect and guide me. As a child, my hands
helped clean a room, swim, play softball, collect cans with my brother, swing, write a book report,
ride my bike, and help my sisters. As a teenager, my hands preformed more naughty tasks than
good tasks. They lit lighters for cigarettes, touched boys in all the wrong places, offended people,
put on heavy make-up, played music really loud, opened cans of beer, played pool, opened
windows in the middle of the night to sneak out, wrote on lockers in junior high, and wrote letters
to family and friends from inside juvenile hall. As I got older my hands cradled babies, feed them,
held the hand of my love across the alter of the temple, cleaned, cooked, taught little children
how to use their hands for feeding, praying, security, sleep, and guidance. Now that I’m older,
my hands are very busy with many tasks. My hands type, drive everywhere, work, love, feel,
garden, search for ancestors, make phone calls, carry the daily reminder to choose the right,
weed, blow dry my hair, exercise, pray, fold clothes, gesture to be quiet, take medicine, wipe
tears, play guitar hero, cook, lift heavy loads, hug, shop, and click.

I feel that the most important work my hands have performed is that of service. Service to my
children, my husband, my extended family, my ward, ancestors, temple, callings, schools. Serving
meals, lifting another, supporting someone, holding the hand of a fellow being, offering the hand
of love.

I know my hands can never bare the ultimate wounds of the infinite love as that of our Savior
Jesus Christ, but I hope that in my lifetime, I can perform with my hands all that He set the
example for us to do. That my hands at the end of my life will reflect the hands of someone
who used them for good, to lift and help another. Who used them in a gentle, loving manner.
With a softness of touch, yet a strength beyond measure.

Jennifer Herr, born 1972