No One Is Taking Me Seriously

I still don't know what bit me.

I took the usual precautions. I wore long pants and sprayed myself with DEET before the hike. I zipped up the tent all the way that night so nothing could get in. But the next morning, I had a small red bump on my calf. Probably just a mosquito bite, I thought.

By the evening, the bump was much bigger. It didn't itch, but it was hot and tender to the touch. Eric said it might be a spider bite. Still probably nothing to worry about. We'd keep an eye on it, make sure no bullseye rash or other signs of trouble appeared. No need to call off the camping trip just yet.

The next morning, though, my whole lower leg was swollen. I told Eric I thought we should leave. He pushed back at first but eventually gave in and took me to urgent care. The doctor barely glanced at my leg before telling me to use some over-the-counter itch cream and come back if the swelling didn't subside in 48 hours.

It still didn't itch. But it throbbed. Alone in my apartment that night, I put two fingers on the bump, where I could feel the throbbing, and two fingers on my neck, where I could feel my pulse. The two pulses were not in sync.

I didn't have a regular doctor to call; I've mostly been pretty healthy until now. I Googled my symptoms and somehow the internet didn't convince me I was dying of cancer or some obscure disease. The results were, if anything, reassuring. Probably just a bug bite, which would probably go away soon.

There's no air conditioning in my building, and that night felt sweltering. Even with the windows open and the ceiling fan on. Even though, according to the weather app on my phone, it was only 72 outside. I slept fitfully, first throwing off the blanket and then the sheet as well. I dreamed of bugs crawling on me, and my leg swelling up like a balloon, detaching at the knee and drifting off into the night sky.

I woke up to a wet feeling on my calf. Looking down, I felt my stomach clench: the bump had burst open, and the fitted sheet was soaked with blood and pus. At first it looked like the bump had exploded, spattering fluids all over. But as I looked closer, I saw that the droplets weren't elongated, the way they should have been if that were the case. Instead, beyond the small puddle under my calf, a cluster of pinprick dots gradually dispersed toward the edge of the bed, becoming fainter and farther apart until they disappeared. It almost looked like a swarm of insects had left a trail of wet footprints as they scattered.

I went back to urgent care. A different doctor told me it looked like an abscess had burst, wrote me a prescription for antibiotics, and sent a nurse in to clean and bandage the wound. I tried to take comfort in the doctor and nurse's apparent lack of concern. If they weren't worried, why should I be? But my stomach wouldn't unclench.

Back in my apartment, I smelled something...off. It was a bit like rotting fruit mixed with a damp basement mixed with something sharp and unfamiliar. As I closed my eyes and tried to place the smell, I thought I heard a soft, rapid clicking in the kitchen. A nauseating wave of dread washed over me, and I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt. I stuffed some clothes and toiletries in a backpack and hurried out the door. Once I was outside, I texted Eric, asking if I could stay over that night. Then I texted my landlord and told him I thought there was an infestation in the apartment.

Eric responded quickly; of course I could crash there. My landlord didn't respond until the next day. He said he'd stopped by and let himself in since I wasn't home, and he didn't see any signs of an infestation. No need for an exterminator. I don't know how I'm going to go back there. Last night I dreamed I was at home and bugs were again swarming all over me. I was so relieved to wake up and realize I was at Eric's, even though it took a few minutes to stop feeling that crawling sensation on my skin.

But I don't know if I can stay here another night, either. This morning, I noticed a small red bump on Eric's arm. He refuses to worry about it. But I can't be here when it bursts.