Nobody warned me that when I was being OCD Andrea, checking every nook and cranny of my home looking for bedbugs, that it would start a war in my home. Well, we all know that I never dreamed I would actually find anything to begin with. And I was hyper-vigilant. Seriously. I found one bug and had an exterminator here in less than 24 hours, then did all of the prep work and had them back for full-blown treatment within 4 days. We didn't even have them that badly--I had caught it in the very beginning!!! So they treated, and we waited the requisite 2 weeks before they did the follow-up inspection. We were all ready to get the green light, when, lo-and-behold, we found a bug. So they did another treatment. Then another bug, and another treatment. We've had 3 so far. 7 weeks and $2,200 (plus living room furniture, a bed, and more) later, we have been given the go-ahead.
So.....
All of our stuff, sealed in black plastic bags in the basement, can now be treated again and put back in it's proper place. Books on shelves, clothes hung in closets, dresser drawers filled. Toys sprayed with alcohol and put away. Baby gear washed and put back together. I didn't think of this part. John and I have been complaining for the duration, since we have been rotating the same couple of outfits for this entire time. It will be nice to have my wardrobe back. For some reason, though, it is seeming to take longer to do this part than it did to treat it all and bag it up. So far I am only halfway through Zach's room.
Another part of which I was not warned? The psychological damage. I am like an insane person, searching for bugs everywhere. As in, "OMG is that a bug? Nope, it's a speck of lint." Or that tiny tickle of an itch on my leg couldn't posibly be dry winter skin, but rather a bug crawling. Truth is, even before we treated, I never encountered one until I went searching. But now I have the psychosomatic creepy-crawlies. In other words, I'm even more of a nutcase.
And the fear! I am so afraid to put our stuff away, lest we have to go though this again. Seriously. And I won't even mention the fear I have of bringing something else home from work!
Showing posts with label bed bugs. Gross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bed bugs. Gross. Show all posts
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Is This What It's Like?
....to be homeless? Nah, I'm being overly dramatic again. I have food and a way of cooking. I have hot water to take a shower. I have most all of my belongings. But still, this cureent state we are in is rather hellish.
I keep telling myself that I survived contractions so bad--basically was in an active labor pattern non-stop for 4 months--that there is no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I mean, really Andrea! C'Mon! Suck it up, right?
I am, of course, referring to the state of my house after I paid a crap-ton of money for the exterminators to treat it for cooties. (Incidentally, I am an ass and did not get them from my neighbors at all, and so I feel awful. By deductive reasoning, the exterminators hypothesized that I brought them home from a patient at work, which brings on a whole new scare factor!)
It was way worse than moving.When you move, you pack your stuff in boxes and move it until your old place is empty. What you don't have to do is treat everything before you pack it away, which was very labor-intensive. You can pack stuff neatly instead of sealing it in plastic bags. And you don't have to trip over the crap while you work your way through the house.
We went through over 250 black trash bags this past weekend. Somewhere after 250, I stopped keeping track. I just know I had to keep sending John back to the store for more. He finally had had enough on the last trip and brought home more than I asked for. I think fear motivated him. He had purchased those huge storage tubs,5 bottles of rubbing alcohol, a large bucket, 5 large boxes of garbage bags, and a ton of plastic sheeting with which to wrap the furniture, and he came home visibly perturbed. "Andrea! I am sure by now that the people at the store think I am trying to dispose of a body right about now, and I am not going back!" Poor John.
So now my basement is completely full of filled black garbage bags. We can't start putting it all away until the exterminator does our follow-up 2 weeks to make sure there is no more evidence of cootie-infestation in my house. And even then, as we unpack the stuff, we have to treat it all again. Bag by bag. Honestly? This sucks. In more ways than one.
First of all, I have this addiction to designer handbags. It is my crack/ heroin/ crystal meth. Seriously. I live for the 2 times per year where I go and buy a really expensive bag. But the drawback is that my closet had shelves where they were all lined up neatly like a little army. They had to be treated somehow and the only things that effectively kill any hidden cooties are alcohol (NOOOOOOO!) and heat. And so I had to do it. I had to fill my dryer full of handbags that were on average of $400 a piece. I swear you would have thought someone made me put my children in there. I cried and fretted and whined and bit my nails for the entire 35 miutes they were in there. And when the dryer buzzed to let me know it was finished, I ran down the stars to rescue them as if Jesus himself was trapped in my dryer. Thankfully they all emerged unscathed.
This experience has also taught John just how much crap I buy. Nothing reveals a shopaholic like having to go through the house, item by item, mentally taking stock of what all one owns. In other words: Shit, I got busted! Good thing I am the breadwinner or I would probably be divorced right now. Evidence of my excess: Zach has 16 fricken snowsuits. And after treating load upon load of scrubs, John started counting as we were folding and bagging them. Lets just say that, since I am only obligated to 3 days a week, I could go most of the year without having to wash uniforms if I wanted to. And gym shoes---I'm a fatty, and I work long hours on my feet, running around a hospital on concrete floors all night. I am constantly in the market for the miracle shoe that will reverse the effects of gravity that my fat arse exerts onto my poor fat feet. I have paid a ton for shoes, only to discard them a week later because they didn't do it for me. Mind you, these are perfectly good gym shoes, and are great for a trip to the mall or taking the kids to the park. Or running errands. Or even running on a treadmill. Just not for work. So I have to keep them, which translates to a closet full of gym shoes that have each been worn a week or so. So after raiding my closet, I don't think I am allowed to buy anymore shoes. Ever.
In the meantime, every square inch of my basement is covered with trash bags. My living room furniture is gone. John and I have been sleeping on the living room floor for days now. (We tried an air mattress, but as uncomfortable as the floor is, it's better than that air mattress, which felt like it would pop like a balloon every time you moved on it.) Zach is sleeping in his Pack&Play. About the only one of us unaffected is Evan--his bed had to be stripped and his dresser drawers removed so they could treat, and his stuff was also bagged up and treated, but he still has his bed because nothing was found downstairs. As a matter of fact, my computer has even been swathed in plastic for 2 days. Sucky.
So until November 10th, we have to live out of these bags. That's when the follow-up appointment is scheduled. Lucky us.
I keep telling myself that I survived contractions so bad--basically was in an active labor pattern non-stop for 4 months--that there is no doubt in my mind that I can do this. I mean, really Andrea! C'Mon! Suck it up, right?
I am, of course, referring to the state of my house after I paid a crap-ton of money for the exterminators to treat it for cooties. (Incidentally, I am an ass and did not get them from my neighbors at all, and so I feel awful. By deductive reasoning, the exterminators hypothesized that I brought them home from a patient at work, which brings on a whole new scare factor!)
It was way worse than moving.When you move, you pack your stuff in boxes and move it until your old place is empty. What you don't have to do is treat everything before you pack it away, which was very labor-intensive. You can pack stuff neatly instead of sealing it in plastic bags. And you don't have to trip over the crap while you work your way through the house.
We went through over 250 black trash bags this past weekend. Somewhere after 250, I stopped keeping track. I just know I had to keep sending John back to the store for more. He finally had had enough on the last trip and brought home more than I asked for. I think fear motivated him. He had purchased those huge storage tubs,5 bottles of rubbing alcohol, a large bucket, 5 large boxes of garbage bags, and a ton of plastic sheeting with which to wrap the furniture, and he came home visibly perturbed. "Andrea! I am sure by now that the people at the store think I am trying to dispose of a body right about now, and I am not going back!" Poor John.
So now my basement is completely full of filled black garbage bags. We can't start putting it all away until the exterminator does our follow-up 2 weeks to make sure there is no more evidence of cootie-infestation in my house. And even then, as we unpack the stuff, we have to treat it all again. Bag by bag. Honestly? This sucks. In more ways than one.
First of all, I have this addiction to designer handbags. It is my crack/ heroin/ crystal meth. Seriously. I live for the 2 times per year where I go and buy a really expensive bag. But the drawback is that my closet had shelves where they were all lined up neatly like a little army. They had to be treated somehow and the only things that effectively kill any hidden cooties are alcohol (NOOOOOOO!) and heat. And so I had to do it. I had to fill my dryer full of handbags that were on average of $400 a piece. I swear you would have thought someone made me put my children in there. I cried and fretted and whined and bit my nails for the entire 35 miutes they were in there. And when the dryer buzzed to let me know it was finished, I ran down the stars to rescue them as if Jesus himself was trapped in my dryer. Thankfully they all emerged unscathed.
This experience has also taught John just how much crap I buy. Nothing reveals a shopaholic like having to go through the house, item by item, mentally taking stock of what all one owns. In other words: Shit, I got busted! Good thing I am the breadwinner or I would probably be divorced right now. Evidence of my excess: Zach has 16 fricken snowsuits. And after treating load upon load of scrubs, John started counting as we were folding and bagging them. Lets just say that, since I am only obligated to 3 days a week, I could go most of the year without having to wash uniforms if I wanted to. And gym shoes---I'm a fatty, and I work long hours on my feet, running around a hospital on concrete floors all night. I am constantly in the market for the miracle shoe that will reverse the effects of gravity that my fat arse exerts onto my poor fat feet. I have paid a ton for shoes, only to discard them a week later because they didn't do it for me. Mind you, these are perfectly good gym shoes, and are great for a trip to the mall or taking the kids to the park. Or running errands. Or even running on a treadmill. Just not for work. So I have to keep them, which translates to a closet full of gym shoes that have each been worn a week or so. So after raiding my closet, I don't think I am allowed to buy anymore shoes. Ever.
In the meantime, every square inch of my basement is covered with trash bags. My living room furniture is gone. John and I have been sleeping on the living room floor for days now. (We tried an air mattress, but as uncomfortable as the floor is, it's better than that air mattress, which felt like it would pop like a balloon every time you moved on it.) Zach is sleeping in his Pack&Play. About the only one of us unaffected is Evan--his bed had to be stripped and his dresser drawers removed so they could treat, and his stuff was also bagged up and treated, but he still has his bed because nothing was found downstairs. As a matter of fact, my computer has even been swathed in plastic for 2 days. Sucky.
So until November 10th, we have to live out of these bags. That's when the follow-up appointment is scheduled. Lucky us.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Learn From Me
Warning: Long post, but I need to vent, STAT!
I learned a heartbreaking lesson this week. It really can happen to anyone. I have thought long and hard about writing this post because of the embarrassment I feel over the topic, but I figure there may be someone out there who is helped by it.
Remember this post? Well, John and I spent the entire day satisfying my paranoia and probable OCD. And we saw no evidence of them in my house. No stains, eggs, casts. No bites on any of us. And I felt enormous relief, and John was about to cuss me for making him take the bedroom apart piece by piece. He went into the kitchen to get us each a drink as I collapsed in my relief on my pristine ivory mattress (sans bedding). And as John comes back in the room to hand me my Diet Coke, he gasps, "Andrea, what's that???????"
There it was. A tiny bug crawling across the mattress. And so we caught it in a piece of medical tape and put it in a jar, and called a pest control company. The poor exterminator who took my call probably didn't know what to think, as I was literally sobbing. And when we ended up taking it to him so he could look at it under a microscope, and he told me it was indeed a bed bug, I gagged. I mean I literally I'm-gonna-vomit gagged. And I told them that I didn't care what it took, to please get to my house ASAP and fix it! And I started to speculate where it came from. One of my patients? Or from something I bought in a store? Where?
So the next day, a man with a masters in entomology showed up at my house along with an exterminator and a trained dog that can sniff them out. And they looked. It only took them 10 minutes. This next part takes some explaining.
We rent. Long story as to why a 30-something professinal with an above-average salary, a ten-year marriage, and a couple of kids rents a house instead of owning like I should. Let me just say that up until I had Zach, the plan was for me to start med school this year. And with med school, you go where you are accepted. I could've been moving to fricken Guatemala or something. So I did not want to be strapped to a mortgage, and so we rent. And it is indeed a duplex made of parallel units instead of the one-up, one-down design. And we know I hate my neighbors because of their lack of taste. Now I have a whole other reason.
The pest control people found an egg in the joint of the wall and ceiling of my bedroom along the adjoining wall to the 2 units. And about a foot further, another one. And a little bit further from that, another one. And then they got to my bed. No evidence. And then they peeled the fabric batting off of the bottom of my boxspring. And found more. But so far out into my room, it stopped. We had caught it early, and they thought it was coming from the common wall I share with my neighbors. Fuckers. Sorry for the language, but it seems appropriate right now. Because thinking back, they mysteriously threw out their mattress in the middle of the night a few weeks ago. And when I told them I found one in my place, they had no reaction whatsoever. Not shock or disgust or surprise. And when the property owner suggested the exterminator take a look at their side to be safe, they came up with every excuse to get out of it, even though I was paying for it. My landlord had to strong-arm them into an inspection, which is taking place tomorrow at 10 AM.
And then they found the pattern in my house. And there is no doubt we got them from the neighbors, but have to go through the motions.
My brand new bed was thrown out. It was less than 6 months old. John bought it right before I had Zach because the old one was getting worn. And the entire treatment of the house, which is under way, was $1100.00. And the work! Just to be safe, we are treating the house like it is overrun with them. Everything--and I mean everything--has to be sealed in plastic and treated with heat. But the worst part? As I was stripping Zach's crib of his adorable, posh crib bedding, we found another bug. And I started sobbing again. Because the idea of one of them in the bed with my baby just kills me and makes me borderline homicidal. What nasty person has these and doesn't take the proper action to get rid of them? I know! My skanky neighbors!
So there you have it. I am embarrassed. I am enraged. I hate them. HATE them! I used to think this only happened to dirty people. Nope. People here are getting them from travelling or simple shopping. People in affluent neighborhoods and housing projects alike. My family is a statistic.
Now for my PSA. Unless you live in a bubble, check your house. Be paranoid like me. I really didn't think we would find anything. I was so wrong.
I learned a heartbreaking lesson this week. It really can happen to anyone. I have thought long and hard about writing this post because of the embarrassment I feel over the topic, but I figure there may be someone out there who is helped by it.
Remember this post? Well, John and I spent the entire day satisfying my paranoia and probable OCD. And we saw no evidence of them in my house. No stains, eggs, casts. No bites on any of us. And I felt enormous relief, and John was about to cuss me for making him take the bedroom apart piece by piece. He went into the kitchen to get us each a drink as I collapsed in my relief on my pristine ivory mattress (sans bedding). And as John comes back in the room to hand me my Diet Coke, he gasps, "Andrea, what's that???????"
There it was. A tiny bug crawling across the mattress. And so we caught it in a piece of medical tape and put it in a jar, and called a pest control company. The poor exterminator who took my call probably didn't know what to think, as I was literally sobbing. And when we ended up taking it to him so he could look at it under a microscope, and he told me it was indeed a bed bug, I gagged. I mean I literally I'm-gonna-vomit gagged. And I told them that I didn't care what it took, to please get to my house ASAP and fix it! And I started to speculate where it came from. One of my patients? Or from something I bought in a store? Where?
So the next day, a man with a masters in entomology showed up at my house along with an exterminator and a trained dog that can sniff them out. And they looked. It only took them 10 minutes. This next part takes some explaining.
We rent. Long story as to why a 30-something professinal with an above-average salary, a ten-year marriage, and a couple of kids rents a house instead of owning like I should. Let me just say that up until I had Zach, the plan was for me to start med school this year. And with med school, you go where you are accepted. I could've been moving to fricken Guatemala or something. So I did not want to be strapped to a mortgage, and so we rent. And it is indeed a duplex made of parallel units instead of the one-up, one-down design. And we know I hate my neighbors because of their lack of taste. Now I have a whole other reason.
The pest control people found an egg in the joint of the wall and ceiling of my bedroom along the adjoining wall to the 2 units. And about a foot further, another one. And a little bit further from that, another one. And then they got to my bed. No evidence. And then they peeled the fabric batting off of the bottom of my boxspring. And found more. But so far out into my room, it stopped. We had caught it early, and they thought it was coming from the common wall I share with my neighbors. Fuckers. Sorry for the language, but it seems appropriate right now. Because thinking back, they mysteriously threw out their mattress in the middle of the night a few weeks ago. And when I told them I found one in my place, they had no reaction whatsoever. Not shock or disgust or surprise. And when the property owner suggested the exterminator take a look at their side to be safe, they came up with every excuse to get out of it, even though I was paying for it. My landlord had to strong-arm them into an inspection, which is taking place tomorrow at 10 AM.
And then they found the pattern in my house. And there is no doubt we got them from the neighbors, but have to go through the motions.
My brand new bed was thrown out. It was less than 6 months old. John bought it right before I had Zach because the old one was getting worn. And the entire treatment of the house, which is under way, was $1100.00. And the work! Just to be safe, we are treating the house like it is overrun with them. Everything--and I mean everything--has to be sealed in plastic and treated with heat. But the worst part? As I was stripping Zach's crib of his adorable, posh crib bedding, we found another bug. And I started sobbing again. Because the idea of one of them in the bed with my baby just kills me and makes me borderline homicidal. What nasty person has these and doesn't take the proper action to get rid of them? I know! My skanky neighbors!
So there you have it. I am embarrassed. I am enraged. I hate them. HATE them! I used to think this only happened to dirty people. Nope. People here are getting them from travelling or simple shopping. People in affluent neighborhoods and housing projects alike. My family is a statistic.
Now for my PSA. Unless you live in a bubble, check your house. Be paranoid like me. I really didn't think we would find anything. I was so wrong.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Cooties
Let me start by saying this: Ewwwwwww. Gross. Disgusting. Nasty McNastiness.
Bed Bugs.
No, I do not have them. But I have patients come into the hospital with them with increasing frequency and each and every time, I will feel like something is crawling on me for days afterwards. Of course I know it is all psychological. And I get paranoid as heck. But in my defense, it is entirely possible for one to hitch a ride home with me on my scrubs. And around here, this topic is all over. People have gotten them from pretty respectable businesses like stores and hotels. Not to mention yard sales, consignment shops....Blech. Something other than financial ruin has finally made me afraid to shop. This is bad. Really, really bad.
So the other day at work, I had a patient come in with them. Again. This one hit me particularly hard because just a few days ago, they had found one of the cooties crawling in the nurses' station of one of the ICUs. They trapped it in a specimen cup, safely sealed beneath plastic, and showed us all what they look like. Now is the part where I tell you that my hospital is immaculate. This is pretty much just the inevitable when you have all kinds of patients from all walks of life come in, complete with their belongings from home, and stay a spell. But nevertheless, it creeped us all out. And so getting another patient with them just did me in.
So I come home, literally stripping as I come into the vestibule that separates our halves of the duplex, and throw my scrubs, shoes, socks, undies, and even my stethoscope cover, into the wash. I still feel gross, and so I jump into the hottest shower I can tolerate. Still feel creepy-crawly, but by now I realize it's my mind playing tricks on me. And I try to sleep a little. By midday, I'm okay.
Until last night.
Evan has a habit of leaving doors open. And this is about the only time of year my allergies allow me to have windows open to get some fresh air, despite the fact that just about every window in my house needs a screen replaced. So various little bugs will occasionally get in. I'm sure this was what this was. But as John and I were getting ready to go to bed, there on the corner of the night stand, was a creature. And so I abandoned the idea of sleep and started googling bed bugs. And this didn't look like one. And we have no other signs of a problem. I do not have cooties.
But I was still freaked out. Because it was in my bedroom. And it was a bug. And I had the patient. And the idea just creeps me out more than you could imagine. Seriously, if I got them, I think Iwould have to torch my own house as my family fled in their birthday suits to prevent bringing any stowaways. I am that freaked out. So what I really want to do is call Terminex. And the Orkin Man. And any other pest control company in Cincinnati and have them all check out my house simultaneously because you can never be too safe. John says I'm crazy. So instead, to appease me, he is going to help me strip down the bedroom in the morning to make extra extra extra extra sure. Because I am still creeped out. And a little OCD about this. In truth, he and I both know we're clear. I'm too much of a neat freak and clean and scrub too often to not have seen evidence of them if we did have them. I know he's just agreed to this to shut up.
Bed Bugs.
No, I do not have them. But I have patients come into the hospital with them with increasing frequency and each and every time, I will feel like something is crawling on me for days afterwards. Of course I know it is all psychological. And I get paranoid as heck. But in my defense, it is entirely possible for one to hitch a ride home with me on my scrubs. And around here, this topic is all over. People have gotten them from pretty respectable businesses like stores and hotels. Not to mention yard sales, consignment shops....Blech. Something other than financial ruin has finally made me afraid to shop. This is bad. Really, really bad.
So the other day at work, I had a patient come in with them. Again. This one hit me particularly hard because just a few days ago, they had found one of the cooties crawling in the nurses' station of one of the ICUs. They trapped it in a specimen cup, safely sealed beneath plastic, and showed us all what they look like. Now is the part where I tell you that my hospital is immaculate. This is pretty much just the inevitable when you have all kinds of patients from all walks of life come in, complete with their belongings from home, and stay a spell. But nevertheless, it creeped us all out. And so getting another patient with them just did me in.
So I come home, literally stripping as I come into the vestibule that separates our halves of the duplex, and throw my scrubs, shoes, socks, undies, and even my stethoscope cover, into the wash. I still feel gross, and so I jump into the hottest shower I can tolerate. Still feel creepy-crawly, but by now I realize it's my mind playing tricks on me. And I try to sleep a little. By midday, I'm okay.
Until last night.
Evan has a habit of leaving doors open. And this is about the only time of year my allergies allow me to have windows open to get some fresh air, despite the fact that just about every window in my house needs a screen replaced. So various little bugs will occasionally get in. I'm sure this was what this was. But as John and I were getting ready to go to bed, there on the corner of the night stand, was a creature. And so I abandoned the idea of sleep and started googling bed bugs. And this didn't look like one. And we have no other signs of a problem. I do not have cooties.
But I was still freaked out. Because it was in my bedroom. And it was a bug. And I had the patient. And the idea just creeps me out more than you could imagine. Seriously, if I got them, I think Iwould have to torch my own house as my family fled in their birthday suits to prevent bringing any stowaways. I am that freaked out. So what I really want to do is call Terminex. And the Orkin Man. And any other pest control company in Cincinnati and have them all check out my house simultaneously because you can never be too safe. John says I'm crazy. So instead, to appease me, he is going to help me strip down the bedroom in the morning to make extra extra extra extra sure. Because I am still creeped out. And a little OCD about this. In truth, he and I both know we're clear. I'm too much of a neat freak and clean and scrub too often to not have seen evidence of them if we did have them. I know he's just agreed to this to shut up.
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