Mental Illness Averted

"I truly felt broken and on the brink of insanity. I wanted to escape to a hospital, but I knew I would be taking 'it' with me."

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I think most people have at least one type of human experience that they hope will never touch them, and they do everything in their power to avoid that "thing" because they believe it would take them beyond their ability to cope. Also, there are some horrible conditions or circumstances that we are, perhaps smugly, certain that we will never encounter because our lifestyle keeps us safe and away from them. For me a mysterious, horrifying phenomenon fell into both categories: some vague nightmare thing called scabies! As a teenager, I heard people who were feeling rejected say, "What? Do I have scabies or something?" Sometimes, someone would laugh and accuse someone else of having scabies. But we didn't have Google and I never got around to finding out exactly what it was, so I just associated it with some disgusting skin disease and filthy living. I smiled along with the jokes and felt pretty secure and safely out of reach. Then for decades, I never heard of it again--until January of 2018.

At the time, in addition to tutoring, I was doing a little respite care for a family: a widowed single mom and her young adult son and daughter. The high-functioning autistic daughter, whom I was employed to spend time with once a week, had recently graduated to living alone in an apartment and was mainly taking care of herself there. Her brother was living at home, and although their mom tried to help him, he was sinking in mental health issues. He tried to keep a job and at some point, tried independent living with a roommate, but after awhile abandoned hope and informed his mom that he was leaving home and job. He disappeared and soon she found out he had gone out to live on the streets amongst the homeless. Unfortunately, drug use was rampant, and, unknown to the young man or his mother, a blight called scabies had silently entered the camps and was flourishing!

Meanwhile, I continued to work in ignorant bliss, safely "twice removed" from the situation, because I avoided homeless camps, and no longer spent regular time in the family home. I was only going to the sister's apartment now and sitting with her for two hours a week in front of her computer. So, when the mom called and told me that scabies had entered her house with her son, who had decided to come home for a couple of weeks, and that she had been infested personally, I felt very sorry and mortified for her, but still at peace that I would not have to deal with it. She was completing a cleaning frenzy in her house and treating herself and everything would be alright--we thought.

Then another week or so passed and I got another phone call. The daughter had scabies! OH NO! After her brother's rest at home, she had gone back to the house and helped Mom clean up bedding, had relaxed on the infested sofa and then gone home completely unaware that she was carrying the tiny creatures with her. Still, I thought, "Well, I don't have it. Whew! Close call!" However, after further conversation, I recalled that I did have three strange, ugly little reddish bumps in a triangle on my calf. And then I noted that, yes, I did have a rough, slightly itchy patch of skin on my lower back, which I couldn't see, but surely that wasn't it? To my horror, she said that is exactly what it feels like. I freaked out and hung up and headed for the shower to give myself a scrub, but it was too late, and the scrub did not help. And in a very short time I had a rash of red bumps all over and up my back. It makes me feel a bit woozy now, just recalling it. Okay. Deep breath.

So, it turns out, that scabies is a virtually microscopic mite, a hideous spider type of creature, with short thick legs and body. On a white background, it may show up as a barely visible black speck. It bites into the host's skin and tunnels under the surface and lays eggs, invisible to the human eye. The mother excretes a layer that protects the eggs, a kind of shield. Then she moves on and lays more eggs. Left untreated, the eventual outcome is a grotesque skin condition--hence the jokes in my teenage years. The 3 little red bumps in a triangle on my calf were most likely the work of just one bug. I learned a lot that year! I had sat for two hours a week on a soft covered chair (probably infested) with my feet firmly planted in an undoubtedly infested carpet, and we never once saw any sign of the parasite.

It's hard to describe the misery of what happened next. It was not just a matter of a deep clean throughout my apartment, a simple treatment or two and on with life, though it seemed to be that way for my friend, the single mom. No, this is not like head lice. You are dealing with something invisible. I looked up info and asked questions at the pharmacies and was told I had to wash and dry everything I had worn in the last two weeks and anything in the same closet: hot wash, hot dry. And if the wash and dry could not be hot, to wash, dry and store those items in plastic bags in case anything lived through the wash. In the end, I washed pretty much everything I owned, and half of it was in bags on my balcony. Every surface had to be disinfected. Soft furniture, including the bed, needed to be vacuumed--repeatedly. Then there were ideas like spraying with raid, which I did, only to find out that that was an error--it did nothing to help. The treatment/cream targeted the nervous system of the bug and had to cover every square millimeter of one's body, and then you must sleep in a different bed. I did the treatment and then waited in suspense, a week, I think, to make sure there were no new "bites".

It seemed to be ok, but then one night I saw it, a new pink bump on my leg. Oh no! I had to do it all over again. This time I got the carpet steam cleaned as well and threw away floor mats. I waited the recommended amount of time and then did the treatment again. And waited. Looking good. Ok. It's gonna be alright. But then! Yes, that's right. A new pink bump. I was already in a state of hypervigilance. Now, I was beginning to spiral into panic. I didn't know where the bugs were! How could I fight them? I became afraid to touch anything or let anything touch me. I stripped my bed EVERY DAY. I carried my laundry in 2 bags down the 3 flights of stairs to the laundry room EVERY DAY and back up in the freshly cleaned basket, holding it away from my body so as not to transfer anything from me onto the clean laundry. I didn't know where my enemy was. I showered and washed and dried my hair EVERY NIGHT, even though it was getting frazzled. I washed every towel I used and everything I wore--EVERY DAY. I put earrings and necklaces in the freezer. I vacuumed my bed again and again, almost daily, wiped the frame with Lysol wipes. Did the treatment AGAIN. Vacuumed the carpet and washed my floors almost every day, kept disinfecting surfaces. Wrecked a pair of running shoes in the dryer. Wrecked the faux fur on hoods of jackets, and then for months alternated wearing 2 sets clothes I least liked. I never went barefoot, in fact, never let my bare feet touch the floor at all, ever, not even when getting out of the shower (rubber flip-flops because they can be washed and sprayed), never sat on my sofa or big chair at all, never lay on my bed during the day even though I was tormented and mentally and physically exhausted. I had one kitchen chair on which I sat, and I covered it with plastic. I barely touched my cat and worried about her getting infected or picking up and transferring bugs in her fur. I covered my car seats with plastic table cloths, and did not let anyone dare to ride in my car with me.

A heavy sense of dread overwhelmed me, and I did the treatment again and again, only to get the same result. This went on for THREE MONTHS and 7 treatments--a shock to the doctor. I lost 19 pounds. I spent over $700.00 on laundry and the treatments, maybe $750. I feared the rest of my life would be spent in isolation, trying to rid myself of this parasite and there would be nothing else for me, except to go to work and come home and start cleaning and go to bed and do it all over again the next day. I read online of a woman whose husband and son were threatening to leave because she was struggling like I was and feeling like she was losing her mind. And I kept searching for solutions. I tried super hot salt baths. I took Black Walnut (anti-parasitical) capsules. I tried Tea Tree oil and broke out in more spots. I considered Epsom Salt baths, but the pharmacist "poo-pooed" it and so I put the Epsom Salts in the closet. I talked to 3 different doctors. Two said you should be ok now. One said, "I see new spots on your back." But I wasn't allowed the option to get them tested. The 6th and 7th time, I had my friend come over and help me rub the poison into my back to make sure I wasn't missing anything. I faced the embarrassment of asking for the treatment from the pharmacists over and over again, while they looked askance at me, unsure of what I had been up to. And I collected more coins for the laundry.

Every aspect created and added more stress: I worried about spreading the bugs to other people in the building. I worried about being told I couldn't use the laundry room. Then I saw some very unclean people being allowed by a resident to use the machines and feared they would give me more bugs. More stress. I always wiped out the machines before using them, and still do.

Because of my diligent cleaning of myself and my home, I did permit myself to go to church, but I didn't get too close to anyone as I was still in constant fear of infecting someone else, even though I knew the bug does not jump from one person to another. It hides in bedding, mattresses, other soft furniture, clothing and carpets, clings to its host in places where it won't get bumped off, crawls very slowly, and dies in 2 days without a host. (That said, if a host ends up extremely infected on hands, feet, etcetera, the mite would more easily spread. Beware.) I got prayer from my friends on the worship team several times. The worship pastor was kind and had had experience with the bug and harsh chemical treatments in a former job. He was sorry to see it going on so long, and prayed, "No more bugs!" But new pink spots kept appearing and the trauma continued.

In the third month, I truly felt broken and on the brink of insanity. I wanted to escape to a hospital, but I knew I would be taking "it" with me, and feared hospital staff would not understand, nor be able to help. What was I to do? I was out of hope.

Then, one Sunday morning...

The church service ended, the sanctuary was emptying out, and I sat, beaten, exhausted, almost in tears, listening to the soft music that was playing. The young woman who led the worship that day spotted me and came down off the stage to talk. As soon as she asked how I was, tears started to well up. I told her where I was at, and she asked if I knew that the new spots were for sure from the parasite. I responded, "No." And the tears began to stream down. She asked if I'd like her to pray and if it was ok to get the rest of that day's team. With thanks, I agreed.

The five of them sat and surrounded me, the leader "anointed" my forehead with a dab of olive oil "in the name of the Lord," and quietly began to pray. One by one, with respect and kindness, they each softly prayed something different until they patiently and compassionately managed to cover every single aspect of my ordeal. About mid-way through, something started to happen. It was like a cool stream of water began gently flowing over my fevered soul. This may sound melodramatic, but I cannot honestly describe it any other way. If you've ever been hiking a dusty, uphill trail in the hot sun, and the perspiration and dirty grit are stinging your face, and then you get the wonderful opportunity to wash your face with cool water, you know--sort of--what I mean, but in a mental, emotional, spiritual way. When it was over, it was as if someone had snapped their fingers and I had come to my senses. My mind was calm and clear: I literally could not even make myself feel afraid by thinking about it. I thanked my praying friends profusely, and we all left.

I went home in peace; I think I had a snack, and with a sense of freedom, went on the computer to research potential solutions. As I sat there, quite still, I felt a tiny tickle on my skin under my clothing. I stood up and walked as smoothly as possible to the washroom to check it out and discovered two miniscule black specks on my skin. With a dampened, tightly folded tissue, I touched each one and they each stuck to the tissue, which I put into a zip-lock bag and placed in the freezer. (I wanted to take them to a lab, but after a few weeks had to admit, I was never going to contact a lab to try to get them to put the specks under a microscope. Where would I find such a lab?)

The same day of the prayer, I recalled what I had read about Epsom Salts being a helpful secondary, follow-up treatment, as it has the property of drawing stuff out of the skin, even a broken off splinter. Discarding the words of the mocking pharmacist, I immediately prepared a hot bath. Over the next several days, as I daily soaked in the Epsom Salt baths, the remaining pink bumps flattened to pink circles, then faded away and stopped appearing. I'm sure that most of them were a reaction to the harsh, toxic treatments, but I believe those two tiny black specks were culprits as well.

One thing I know for certain is--that cool stream which flowed over my hot, desperate soul and rescued me was not natural. It was supernatural, it restored my mental health, and it, along with the entire experience, made me a stronger, more grateful person. That's my Jesus. Every time I think of it, I am profoundly thankful all over again that my dear friends were sensitive to the leading of the Holy Spirit, and that God, in His perfect timing, answers faith.