Death

Less than 5 months ago, I sat in a graveyard surrounded by freshly dug graves. In those graves were the bodies of hundreds of Ebola victims. In those bodies, lived beautiful souls.

Death is so final.

Not including war and HIV/AIDS, I’ve now worked disasters that led to the total death of over 20, 000 people. That is only my international experience. An experience I don’t often discuss. How can you even begin to describe what that feels like? How can you even want to explain what that looks like?

Death ends a life and destroys so many others.

It’s an interesting thing for me though, death. Being faced with so much of it, I’ve spent a lot of time processing what it means to die. And what it means to watch someone die. And what it means to be the one that gets to live.

I’ve seen some of the most violent deaths you can imagine. In my field, death is rarely peaceful. I’ve heard countless stories of the same. I’ve seen the scars; physical, mental and emotional. I’ve wiped the tears. I’ve held children that were now left completely alone in this world. Sometimes I wonder how I can be so numb to it all.

But I am numb.

You go through periods where you question how you can do what you do. How you can watch everyone around you fall apart completely, and you don’t even shed a tear. That’s often spoken of as a strength, but the truth is, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. In the moment and shortly afterwards.

But I am only numb because I have to be.

There is no weakness in feeling. There is no shame in crying. But I have to play a role that involves allowing everyone else to do that, without turning to that myself. In the moment, I have to be numb to keep moving. To keep working. To keep my focus.

It scares me but I understand it.

You don’t bounce back from this work. You don’t heal. You don’t forget. But you get to survive. Sometimes, even that can feel like you drew the short straw. But I am grateful. Always.

You go numb and you do whatever you have to do to feel again. My self care routine is strong. So strong, that sometimes it looks selfish to those who don’t understand. I don’t fault them for their feelings, but I don’t care either. I take my time to myself. I work out. I travel alone. I speak about it when I need to. I write. I do what I have to do to process my feelings. To feel again. To remember that my numbness isn’t as permanent as the death that causes it.

5 months ago, I returned from Sierra Leone, after working at the Ebola Treatment Centre. I left death and arrived home, to the news of another death. A more personal one. I thought I was ready for the funeral. I was still numb.

Standing in that graveyard, the whole world was spinning around me. I was surrounded by people who were feeling something. So much of something. So much of everything. People that I loved.

I stood there and all I could see was death. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t breathe. In a graveyard, so close to home. I saw names. I saw graves. I saw Sierra Leone. Africa. The Ebola Treatment Centre. Death. I could feel the vomit coming. I couldn’t stop the tears. I had to leave.

It was in that moment that I came back to me.

I always do and I always will. This is the cycle I live.

Until my dying day.

Option 3

Life has been busy.  Adulthood is busy.  Actually, thinking about my kid’s schedules, childhood is busy too.  Alright, back to life than.

LIFE is busy!!!  Mine is no exception.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll be very familiar with the rollercoaster that is 2015.  If you know me at all, you’ll know that I LOVE rollercoasters.  If you know rollercoasters, you know that they end almost as quickly as they begin.  THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair.  I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

Before you start to panic, please realize that I’m half playing.  HALF!  One half is actually in need of a break, the other half is thoroughly enjoying the ride.  I love my work.  I truly do.  I’m driven by action, fueled by passion and in total and complete love with my life.

But life is busy and I’m tired.

I started the year with 5 weeks of vacation; 3 from 2015 and 2 carried over from 2014.  Getting deployed to Sierra Leone in February meant putting all 5 weeks towards my 8 weeks away.  Imagine how badly I needed a vacation when I returned from working at the Ebola Treatment Centre.  Imagine how difficult it was knowing that I had absolutely no time left in my vacation bank for the remainder of the year.  Imagine coming back to work to over 700 emails, voicemail and a cell phone ringing off the hook with everyone pulling you in every direction.  Imagine all of that by mid-April.

There is no way to sugar coat it, it sucked!!!!!

So, I had two options:

1. Pace myself.  Do what I could with the little time I had and not be as present as I would like.

2. Go hard!  Get done what I needed to get done, be present and satisfy the masses.

Option 1 meant less work and more rest.  Option 2 meant more overtime.  Overtime meant the possibility of building some lieu time.  Lieu time meant the opportunity for a vacation and/or time off during the year.  Option 2 won!  Hands down!

I’ve been living in option 2 for 7 weeks straight now.  I’ve worked many late nights, I’ve worked every weekend since I got back.  I’ve banked some lieu time and I have found relief in knowing that my feet will be walking along a beach at some point in 2015.  I’m happy with my choice.  I NEEDED to make that choice.

But now I’m tired!

Last Friday, I hit a wall.  I made another choice, option 3.

3. Unplug.  Shut down.  Take a break.  Breathe.

Friday ended with a shooting.  I could have worked all weekend but I literally had nothing left to give.  My kids needed me to be present.  I needed them to remind me to slow down.  Option 3.  I shut myself off from work for the entire weekend.  I didn’t watch the news.  I didn’t check my emails.  I didn’t answer my phone.  I didn’t check my voicemail.

I hung out with my children.  I watched my oldest son play baseball.  I spent the entire day watching my youngest son compete in his lacrosse tournament.  I laughed.  I napped.  I wrote.  I spent time with friends and family.  I fully embraced option 3.

Last night, I went to bed at 9pm.  I slept a solid 9 hours.  I felt amazing when I woke up this morning at 6am.  I got up, got ready and went to the gym.  I did a one hour spin class, took a shower, got dressed, bought coffee, ate my overnight oats and I was at my desk by 8:30am.  I was recharged and fully ready for Monday!

My morning started off with a meeting.

Meetings are the number one productivity killer for me.  Seriously.  I truly believe that.  I’m an action person.  I go in, get shit done, and leave.  Meetings are not made to suit the needs of us ADHD folk.

I’m also rarely at the office.

My work requires me to be on the road, in my car and in the community all the time.  When I’m at the office, I usually have an obscene amount of paperwork to do, petty cash to turn in, catch up conversations to have with my team and other members of my division.  Everyone always has something to say to me.  Getting my work done at the office means I spend most of my time trying to hide from people.

Today, it was meetings and hiding.

In the middle of a second meeting, I got the alert that there was a homicide.  2pm.  Daylight murder.  My phone started ringing immediately.  Shit!!!!

When an incident happens, the work starts immediately.  It’s non-stop action for the next few hours as you try to get all the information you can.  This is easy in my car.  This is easy in the community.  In the office, when you can’t hide, people come at you from everywhere.  “What happened?…I just heard?…It’s so sad?…Do you know anything yet?…Was it someone who lives in the area?…Were there any arrests?….Do they have any suspects?…Was it connected to anything else?….”

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME DO MY JOB!!!!

That’s what I want to say.  I usually just answer briefly and try to walk away.  It’s a huge pet peeve of mine but I understand that people are curious and for the most part, genuinely concerned.  I know this.  So, I try not to be rude, despite my annoyance.

Today, after 4 hours of emails and phone calls, I wanted to go home.  I hadn’t had a chance to use the washroom and my head was really starting to hurt.  I had an hour commute ahead of me and I just wanted to leave.  As I got up to go to the washroom, someone I worked with decided it would be a good time to discuss a situation that she experienced that really upset her.  I listened to her for about 10 minutes before her phone rang and she had to go.  After about an hour of holding in my pee, I finally got to go to the washroom in peace.  I said goodbye and wished her a good evening.

I go into the stall and sit on the toilet.  Yes, I SIT on the toilet.  Sorry germophobes, at this point, I’m way too exhausted from the activity of the day to hold a squat.  I take a breath, ahhhhhhh….peace!

I’m in the middle of my pee when the door swings open.  Sure enough, she storms into the washroom to finish telling me the rest of her story.

I’m sitting there and all I can think is, “Is this actually really fucking happening?  What has happened in my life that I can’t even pee in peace at work?”

THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair. I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

An epic end

April 12, 2015. 

It’s no secret to anyone who follows my blog that today marks a significant moment in my life. 

17 years since my suicide attempt. 

17 years on borrowed time.

But today, I have so much more to celebrate. Today, I celebrate 21 days.  Official medical clearance. I am no longer at risk for developing Ebola symptoms.  

21 days since I returned from Sierra Leone.  21 days of recording my temperature twice daily.  21 days of reporting to local Public Health.  21 days of rest. 21 days on top of 5 weeks. 

Today, my mission is officially complete!

An epic end for a new beginning. 

Returning to me (pt. 2)

After feeling this way for a week, I decided this would take more than love.  An outsider. Someone I can unload to without concern for their feelings.  Without having to worry about worrying them. 

I trust my process but I know how terrifying it can look to someone that cares about me.  

I know I’m ok. 

I don’t want to have to worry about making sure everyone else knows it too. 

So today, I made the call to my employee assistance program for counselling.  It’s not the first time I’ve deemed it necessary, it likely won’t be the last. I’m familiar with the intake process.  

A series of questions to find out who I am, where I’m at and what is happening.

She gathers the basics.

Name

Number

Address

Blah blah blah. 

Next is the confidentiality clause…We won’t tell unless you’re at risk of hurting yourself and/or others.  Got it.  Cool. 

Then we get to the heart of the matter…tell me a little bit about what’s going on. 

I start with, I just got back from an Ebola mission in West Africa. 

She interrupts.  That’s so wonderful. Good for you. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I keep going. 

My marriage is falling apart.

There is a lot happening in my personal life.  I’m coming up on the anniversary of my suicide attempt and I’m surrounded by death.  

My family and friends are going through a lot right now.

I’m going back to work in a week and a half and I know there will not be a smooth transition.

She’s gathered enough. 

After you said Ebola mission, I can completely understand why you called. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I am so much more then my career in disaster response. There is so much more to my life.  This is part of what makes coming back so difficult.  Everyone wants to hear about your mission, your deployment, the horrors you’ve seen and heard.  All to satisfy their own curiosities.  It’s such a lonely feeling to return to that. To be surrounded by that. To lock yourself away because you know this is what you will have to face.  Every. Single. Time. You. Walk. Out. That. Door. 

My mission is a fraction of what I’m experiencing.  I’m trying to figure out how my life will function if my marriage ends.  The thought of not being with my husband, having to move, struggling financially, maintaining my very demanding career as a single mother and not having my kids full time.  I’m struggling with the fact that my life has been plagued with death. How my first 17 years and my last 17 years started and ended with it.  So much more. So much fucking more. 

I don’t say any of this. 

Next question. 

Do you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?

Yes, but I’ve been sober for over 16 years. 

Are you on any medications for depression right now?

No, but I’m considering it temporarily while I access supports. 

Have you been on medication before?

Yes, at various stages in my life. Temporarily, while accessing supports.  

You said you were married, does your husband work?

Yes. 

So, obviously you don’t have any children so I can skip that. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I have three kids. 

Ohhhh. 

But now I’m pissed. 

What the fuck about my life led you to make an assumption like that?  

Is it that I can have a successful  international career?

A successful full time career?

My past addiction?

My mental health history?

I don’t say anything. I’m not in a good place for that. I get through the intake and just sit with it. 

 

I’m 34 years old. 

A woman. 

A mother. 

A daughter. 

A sister. 

A queer woman. 

A woman who was homeless. 

A recovering addict. 

A former drug dealer. 

A street involved youth. 

A runaway. 

A survivor of an eating disorder. 

A survivor of suicide. 

A god damn fucking success story. 

I am what mental health looks like. 

I am what drug addiction looks like. 

I am what a good mother looks like. 

I am so proud of everything I am. 

Fuck your labels.

Fuck your assumptions. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

My appointment is next Tuesday. 

I’m getting back to me. 

Changes

Some conversations replay in your head for hours.  If home is a feeling, I’m not there yet.

Changes.

My life is a comedy.

My life really is a series of comedies you’d have to see to believe.  It’s amazing. I really enjoy it, more so because things usually work out in the end.  The process though, awesome!!!! 

I was stoked when the Brussels flight was on time. Even more excited to hear we were ahead of schedule.  I only had two hours scheduled between landing in Montreal and leaving for Toronto.  I knew that would be tight, especially with having to get medical clearance upon landing.  So, I got comfortable and prepared myself for my flight.

The pilot comes on to report that they are experiencing a problem locating 6 pieces of luggage that are on the plane but their owners didn’t board.  Ok, that’s cool.  

It will take approximately 10 minutes to find each bag. Wtf?!?!  There goes my transfer flight. I write it off and take my allergy pill. 

My face is still swollen but slowly improving.  I’m optimistic that I won’t look so contagious by the time I’m in Canada.  We are ready for takeoff 40 minutes later, the pilot assures us he will speed to make up some time. Hmmmmmm. Maybe I can make my flight????

My television doesn’t work. I’m exhausted anyway so I decide to listen to music and sleep instead.  The flight is 7 and a half hours, I could get a solid sleep in that time and feel much better by the time we land.  I do just that. The first 6 hours of my flight consists of a series of power naps, interrupted only by meals and a couple washroom breaks.  

I have the window seat and there is a guy, about my age, sitting to my right.  I gave him my pretzels at snack time, so I fully expect him to cooperate when I ask him to check his television for our estimated landing time. He does. Excellent.  I decide there is no way I’m making my flight.  Since he’s been sitting on my good side the whole time, he starts to talk to me.  He’s an RCMP officer who specializes in terrorism.  Almost immediately, I feel like I have to explain my face. “I was attacked by a mosquito. It was an ugly scene but I’m not contagious”. We both start laughing.  We have some really interesting conversations about our line of work for the rest of the flight.  

About a half an hour to landing, the flight attendant comes by with a piece of paper. 

Him – “Are you Sandra?”  

Me – “Yes”

Him – “We just got a call from customs saying there are 3 of you on this flight who need to get off the flight first. I don’t know why.”

Me – “oh ok, that’s cool”

He leaves. I look at buddy next to me and say “that sounded really sketchy didn’t it?”  “Yup!”  We both start laughing again. “Do you think I’ll make it through customs with my face?”  “Hmmmmm, you’ll definitely miss your flight.”

About five minutes later, the loud speaker goes on…

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have received a call from customs saying there are three people that need to get off this flight before anyone else. (Insert our names here!) When we land, please stay seated and allow them to get off the plane first.”

Nope, that’s not at all embarrassing. LOL!  Buddy looks at me and laughs, “NOW you look sketchy!”  Always a good thing to hear from a terrorism expert.  

The plane lands and they announce that the three of us can get up now. I stand up and the female flight attendant orders me to sit down immediately. Ummmm, I don’t understand.  She looks at me very seriously and tells me only the three people are allowed to leave.  The male attendant screams from the other side of the plane, “that’s her!”  Buddy and I look at eachother and he quietly says “sketchy”.  I burst out laughing and say goodbye.  Every single person is looking at me wondering what I did wrong.  Awkward.  

There are two people waiting to escort us to medical clearance. They take our passports but keep their distance.  I turn to one guy and say “where are you coming from?”  He says “Guinea, you?”  “Sierra Leone”. Ahhhh. The other guy says he’s coming from Sierra Leone too. We bypass all the lines as we go thru customs and are taken into a small room.  In the room, we are each given a 5 page questionnaire.  My connecting flight is just a memory now.  I fill out the form and wait to be seen by the nurse.  My temperature is good. I’m given a thermometer and a lot of paper with detailed instructions on how to report my temperature daily for the next 21 days.  Okie dokie. 

It’s 2:40pm by the time I get the all clear. No way I’ll make my 2:45pm flight. 

I know there are hourly flights from Montreal to Toronto so I’m not worried. I’m told I have to collect my baggage and check in on the other side.  I also have to get rebooked for another flight, so I line up for the next available attendant.  It’s 3pm when it’s my turn. She tells me every single flight for the day to Pearson is completely booked. Something about March Break.  Crap.  There is a flight for 3:30pm that lands at Toronto Island. I’ll take it!!!!  Actually, that’s sold out now too. Dammit. 4:30pm it is.  She’s moving slowly now that there is no rush.  I message home to change the pickup location and time.  Just as she’s about to print the ticket, a spot opens up at 3:30 and she gets excited and books it. Everything is done by 3:06pm and she looks at me calmly and says “you should probably start running now.”  

I drop my bags off and sprint through the Montreal airport.  There is a ten minute line to cross security but it’s moving well. I get through by 3:20pm and sprint to my gate. It’s conveniently located as far away as you can possibly imagine but I make it. Just in time.  

My face looks better but I might pee myself. 

Next stop: Toronto 

Before and after.

There is nothing glamorous about mission life.  Nothing.

I left looking like my usual lovely self, five weeks later, I return looking like Will Smith’s allergic reaction in the movie “Hitch.”  This is why I take before and after pics. You have to see it to believe it. 

 

My favourite line in the field is “don’t judge me based on what you see here”.  If you know me in the field, you would have a hard time picturing anything else.  My personality suits it.  I’m laid back, low maintenance and relaxed…so, people don’t believe that I would enjoy dressing in a way that would normally be considered high maintenance. Wrong.  Sandra and heels go together like white bread and Nutella on this mission.  Or like chicken and anything.  We just fit.  I enjoy heels, skirts and dressing up as much as I don’t mind being filthy in the field.

Jenny and I shared that message this time around and it was the source of many good laughs. 

Everyone follows the exact same process when entering the ETC. You get your temperature checked and recorded, get the soles of your shoes sprayed with chlorine, wash your hands with chlorine, walk to the laundry to get scrubs and a pair of rubber boots and head to the changing tent to get dressed. 

The changing tent is as hot as I imagine the pits of hell to be.  You are dripping sweat the minute you walk in.  The female national staff come to work at the ETC wearing these beautiful outfits, heels and with their hair all done up.  The international staff come in what we call “mission clothes”.  We all change together for our shifts.  I couldn’t imagine wearing something nice while sweating as much as we do.   

The laughs came from us trying to explain to our male colleagues how ridiculous we look changing next to our local staff team.  You pack light for the field, usually taking clothing you wouldn’t mind losing or not bringing home with you. These are your “mission clothes”. We practically wear the same thing everyday and it’s often not in the best condition.  This is easy for men to understand, they do the same thing with their clothes.

What is more difficult for them to grasp was the concept of “mission underwear”.  The local staff would come wearing these lacy and funky print bras and panties and we had to change in our best undesired ones.

Jenny and I tried to explain what that meant to our male colleagues on several occasions.  We told them about the cycle of a bra…when it’s on the way out, it becomes mission underwear. Same with panties.  But they don’t get it.  It just didn’t make sense to them. 

Us – bras are expensive, you wouldn’t bring a new one to a mission.  Wouldn’t you bring your older underwear with you?

Them – no, actually, I packed new underwear for this one. 

Us – what?!  What name brand is it?

Them – I don’t know, my wife buys them. 

Us – check. 

Them – a Walmart brand, I think. 

Us – yeah, well you’re regular underwear probably have the same value as our mission underwear. 

Looking back now, I laugh at how ridiculous our conversations in the field can be.  It was a good mission. It was a great team.

For five weeks, I’ve wanted to have some time to myself.  Today, I am a perfect recipe for being left alone; Coming from Sierra Leone, having working at the Ebola Treatment Centre, and with my face looking sad, swollen and contagious.   

 

The universe delivers in unusual ways.  I may as well enjoy it. 

Next stop: Montreal 

Something ate my face

I knew I was getting bitten all night.  I felt it. Every part of me was itchy. 

This was my first night out of a mosquito dome since I arrived in Africa.  It was laziness really.  I had packed everything so perfectly when I left Kenema. Everything was ready to go for the rest of my journey.  I assumed they would have a mosquito net set up in Freetown, but no.  Back to my laziness.  My pelican case has exactly 7 clips to lock it.  If I had undone those 7 clips, my mosquito dome would have been the first thing I would see.  Two poles and a tent. Simple. It takes me a couple minutes to assemble it but nope. LAZY!!!!  

My left eye felt slightly swollen in the middle of the night.  I knew I had been bitten. Too late to do anything about that now, I kept sleeping.  And scratching.  I was being devoured and I was too tired to care.  By the time my alarm went off for breakfast, my eye was swollen shut.  I pried it open with my hands to make sure I could see out of it. All good.  I lay there for a few minutes before deciding I should go have a look at it.  Mirrors!!!!

I’ve spent the last few weeks without a mirror.  It’s been incredibly freeing. Refreshing.  A pleasant change from my everyday.  I haven’t cared about what I looked like. I haven’t been able to check if I had food in my teeth after a meal.  I haven’t thought about whether or not my face was dirty, if my roots were growing out, or how awful my skin must look after consuming all this gluten and dairy.  I’ve just been content with whatever it was I looked like.  Bliss. 

But my eye is swollen shut and I finally have access to a mirror.  I decide to go have a look.  Ummmmm. What in the actual fuck happened to my face??!!!  

The ENTIRE left side of my face is paralyzed with swelling.  I look like I have taken a serious beating, minus the bruising.  The only thing to do at this point is laugh.  So, I laugh.  It’s business as usual with my swollen face.  I hop in the shower and run some cold water over it.  There is no redness or puss, so I rule out infection at this point.  Looks like an allergic reaction.  That’s cool.  I’m happy that large rimmed sunglasses are in style as I walk to meet Claire for breakfast.  

I forgot to pack any Benadryl with me this time.  Oops.  Luckily, we happily share medication on missions.  We all deploy with the same meds, prescription or over the counter.  We have pills for everything.  With limited access to health care, you have to be prepared to medicate yourself should anything happen. We have anti-malarial meds, various supplements, Tylenol/Advil, cold and flu meds, sleeping pills, de-worming meds, prescription meds for severe diarrhea, at least two rounds of antibiotics in case of infection, pills for yeast infections, etc etc etc.  You name it, someone has it.  

I may have forgotten mine but Claire has prescription meds for allergic reactions with her.  Yay!!!!  I take one immediately and half of the pack to hold me until I get to Toronto.  Four hours later, the swelling starts to go down. A bit. A very small bit. Time for my next dose.  Everyone that sees my face shows genuine concern.  They are all relieved when I tell them it was an insect, and not a man.  I start to introduce myself by saying “I got bitten by a bug AND my name is Sandra.”  It’s easier for everyone this way.  By lunch, I can finally see out of my eye.  It’s trial and error in the field.  My self diagnosis appears to be accurate.  Cool.  

I go back to my room after lunch to put a cold compress on my face.

I have had one of the Ebola songs in my head for the last week.  It may be stuck in there forever.  It’s so ridiculously catchy!  I lay down on my bed, put the Ebola song on repeat and place the wet towel over half my face.  Ebola. Ebola. It’s such a good song.  When the towel gets warm, I get up to soak it with cold water again.  I dance the whole way to the sink and back.  It’s going to be strange to go back to life without singing and dancing all the time.  

An hour later and it’s time to go.  I look in the mirror one last time…yikes!!!  I need to get my eyebrows waxed, my skin is in dire need of a gluten detox and I still look beat up.  I immediately want to go back to not having a mirror again. 

Seriously though, my face is huge.  I look more beat up now than I did when I actually got punched in the face.  That sucked.  Oh well, I grab my bags and walk out the door.  

As I go to load my bags in the van, I roll my ankle on the broken pavement.  Under normal circumstances, I likely would have been able to find my balance but I am seriously top heavy with my bags. The whole thing happens in slow motion.  Today is becoming a disaster in itself.  It has been filled with a series of comedies that I will be laughing at for a long time.  With all the extra weight on me, both my knees hit the ground hard.  Followed by both my palms.  I sit there for a second to assess the situation and realize that this is going to hurt later.  I hear Claire, with her little British accent, “Are you ok, Sandra?”  I think so.  I get up and put my bags down.  The only thing I can think of is how fortunate I am that I didn’t smash the other side of my face on the ground.  I’m not sure anyone would have believed the bug story if the other side of my face was busted on the concrete.  That would have been awesome.  Luckily, I have no shame, so my pride is well in tact. 

We drive to the next mode of transportation on the journey, the ferry across to Lungi.  The cool breeze over the water feels great on my still swollen face.  I’m used to strangers wanting to talk to me but not today.  I know everyone is wondering who hit me, some ask, most just pretend they don’t notice. I guess this is one way to get the alone time I’ve been craving.  I can’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  My palms are now bruised. My wrists are both sore and so are my bruised knees.   

Going through all the check points with this face is interesting.  The first medic at the airport looks at me and says in a very serious, slightly angry tone, “What’s wrong with your face?”  I want to respond with “what’s wrong with YOUR face?!?”  but people at the airport don’t have a sense of humour. “I got bitten by a bug.”  Seems like an acceptable enough response, he flags he through after making sure I don’t have a fever.  The next lady quietly asks “your face is swollen, are you ok?  What happened?”  “I got bitten by an bug, I’m ok.”  Relief everywhere. Just a bug. No need to panic.  I limp across to the gate. LOL. That’s a lie, I’m not limping at this point but everything really does hurt.  

More of the swelling has gone down now and I can finally see where the bite is. It’s EVERYWHERE!!!  My face was a buffet for whatever hungry beast attacked me last night.  I count at least ten bites on the left side of my face. 

After five weeks of potential exposure to a million terrifying things, a bug and broken concrete finally do me in.  The only thing I can think is that I hope my mother doesn’t come pick me up at the airport.  She won’t like this one bit.  I take another pill and hope for the best as I board the first flight. 

Next stop: Brussels.