Before my 86-year-old mother passed away last May, she suffered from a number of chronic disorders, and became progressively confused and physically debilitated. Gradually, she was unable to walk on her own, lacked judgment much of the time, and was dependent on oxygen.
But one of the most vexing problems we encountered during the last year of her life was dermatologic. She was very frail and her skin, thin as paper, began itching terribly around her ankles, perhaps because her circulation was poor, said one doctor. But then the pink rash began erupting on her chest.
So we tried over-the-counter anti-itch creams, cortisone, and one moisturizer after another. We changed laundry detergents and fabric softeners, but the irritation was intractable.
Youre making it itch more by scratching it, I admonished my mother, like one would a child. It was she who had once taught me about the itch-scratch cycle and now I was throwing it back at her. But our roles had reversed in so many ways. In tears, she told me she couldnt help herself, and I felt guilty and ashamed about losing my temper.
We followed up with her internist and two different dermatologists. One of them coded it as eczema and reassured me it was common in older folks. The doctors prescribed day creams, night creams, and antihistamine tablets --all of which were largely ineffectual. And I tried to reassure my mother that this too would pass just like an infection.
Medical crises had become routine in her life and mine, so there were countless visits to her internist, geriatric psychiatrist, pulmonologist, cardiologist and rheumatologist---and dentist and eye doctor. Needing 24/7 care, she had three shifts of caregivers, a psychiatric social worker, and a physical therapist and visiting nurse from time to time. But we soon learned there were silent night visitors that no one knew about.The diagnosis came from an unlikely source. One day, her Colombian caregiver called me at work and said she had found a little wingless bug on the sofa bed where my mother sat most of the day and an aide slept most of the night. She placed the teeny specimen in a snack-size zipper-lock plastic bag, took a cell phone picture of the reddish-brown critter, and sent it to me at work. Was it a baby roach? A pill bug? I searched Google images and realized it was a bedbug.I frantically called the management of the senior housing where my mother lived in an upscale Westchester suburb. The woman who answered assured me that there was no infestation anywhere else in the building and it was limited to my mothers apartment. I wondered how she could be sure.Perhaps they were hitchhikers who came in with one of her caregivers or with someone who goes from house to house? she countered. Everyone began eyeing each other suspiciously. I was hesitant to sit in my mothers upholstered chairs each time I visited or brought groceries, and I made sure that my purse wasnt left open, inviting any curious prey. I changed clothes, showered and washed my hair immediately upon returning to my own house.
One aide quit because she was afraid to come back to the apartment. I couldnt blame her. The others were too dependent on their salaries to resign and the night shift eventually had bites to show as well. My own involvement with bedbugs was beginning to feel more stigmatizing than having a toddler diagnosed with head lice or a teenager diagnosed with Chlamydia.Yes, it was reassuring to finally find out what was driving my mother nuts: bedbug bites---but eradicating the micro-critter invasion wasnt easy. It took three professional treatments of her one-bedroom apartment (fortunately paid for by the landlord)---and we had to bag, wash, and dry all her clothes at extremely high-temperatures, repeatedly. A third round of exterminators, specially trained in bedbug control, found and sealed the hole in the wall behind her sofa that was the likely source of the scourge. How the bugs got in the wall still remains a mystery.Bedbugs dont spread disease, but they sure are creepy! Who doesnt shiver and draw back at the thought of tiny bloodsuckers biting your skin through the night?For me, the effects still linger although Im a bit ahead of the curve when it comes to understanding and coping with the bedbug phobia that has gripped the nation. When I went to see Eat, Pray and Love, I didnt have to ask why the women on the other side of the aisle came to the theatre with big, black plastic bags to cover the upholstered seats. When I recently registered to attend a professional writers conference, I checked the hotel out with BedbugRegistry.com before I booked my room.Lern more about bedbugs here!
