What bugs us won't kill us...
What bugs us won't kill us...
...unless we let it.
This summer, I’ve been thinking a lot about radical acceptance — and bugs. Radical acceptance, by my definition, is the process of staying open and present to what’s happening, even if it’s unpleasant, distressing, or painful. And as for bugs? I have several stories to share on that subject.
About My Summer Of Bugs
Since the beginning of the summer, I’ve had six major run-ins with the threat of bugs.
Cicadas
Be careful what you wish for. When the 2024 cicada invasion hit the Midwest this summer, I watched in fascination as the little creatures flooded social media feeds — but not my hometown of Evanston, Illinois. Why was it that everyone had a cicada story, but we had zilch?
My neighbors and I dutifully protected our young trees and shrubs with reams of tulle-like netting to prevent the intruders from devouring delicate branches, but our efforts were for naught. Apparently, in our part of town near the shores of Lake Michigan, the ground temps never rise high enough to allow for cicada growth and development. And so, while my friends in the western ‘burbs were (literally) shoveling cicadas from the bases of their trees, I mentioned my FOMO about the little 17-year bugs.
That move would come back to haunt me.
Yellow Jackets
Early in August, in my cicada-less backyard, I was watering the climbing hydrangeas in my garden when I noticed something interesting. When I aimed the hose toward the back corner of the yard, a flurry of small, bee-like creatures became active.
Huh. That’s weird. That’s never happened before.
Rather than big, furry bumble bees, I told myself they must be (harmless? ha!) little baby bees coming out to enjoy the spray.
For weeks, whenever I watered, I noticed this bee activity with wonder. Where were they all coming from? After Googling, I concluded that the insects were harmless sweat bees, and stopped thinking about them altogether. Until…
…One day, I noticed a semi-large branch that had fallen from the mighty oak in my backyard. As I stepped carefully through my garden, I found myself in that back corner where I’d seen the “friendly sweat bees.”
As I bent down to pick up the branch, the little fellas emerged from the ground, and I started to get nervous since I didn’t have my garden hose to coax them away. Suddenly, I felt an electric shock on my right, inner ankle…followed by another..and another…and another…and another.
In an instant, I dropped the tree branch and took off running to my back door, heart racing and adrenaline coursing from my brain to my big toes. I knew exactly what had happened. I’d been stung — multiple times — by those friendly little motherfuckers.
Immediately, I applied ice and went in search of itch cream — though all I had was an expired tube of leftover jock itch cream — but hello, desperation!
Would I have a bad reaction? Would my throat close up? Would I go into anaphylactic shock? With my right foot propped up on an ottoman, I waited for two hours, looking for any troubling signs, but all I felt was the sharp, stinging pain on my ankle and the sense of shame for not having been more proactive about the bee’s nest on my property.
The next week, with a swollen ankle, I whittled my savings by $300 to have an exterminator destroy that nest of yellow jackets (with a powder I could have bought on Amazon for $19.99).
Bed Bugs?
Not long after that, Eric noticed a big, blotchy, itchy bite on his chest, which struck us both as odd but not deeply concerning.
And then, I noticed two large, itchy bites around my waistband — the kind of bites that woke me up from a dead sleep scratching. The kind that I noticed AT NIGHT.
The kind that immediately made me think, Are all of these actually bed bug bites?
Convinced that Eric had bed bugs at his apartment and that I had had them in my own house, we took things seriously. Eric called his building superintendent and arranged for an exterminator asap. I emptied out my entire bedroom, bagged up all its contents, and fogged the everliving crap out of the space. While the cannister was still emptying its bed bug killing properties, I Silkwood showered myself yet again, trying not to think about little critters burrowing their way into my skin.
But then, Eric’s exterminator’s verdict gave us pause. NO signs of bed bugs. No evidence of activity anywhere (including his bedroom, living room, dining room). Had I, he asked, found any hard evidence of bed bugs?
“Well, I mean, besides my bites? And your bite? No…”
“Yeah,” Eric said, “the guy doesn’t think either of us has them.”
PREPOSTEROUS, I thought. What else could this BE?
Bees
A week later, I was at Chicago’s Printer’s Row Lit Fest signing my new book and talking about my work as a memoir coach. I’d brought some cans of seltzer water, and as I cracked one open, I noticed a bee flying nearby. Living in the Midwest, it’s common in autumn to see bees hovering near food, so I didn’t freak out, even after the previous yellow jacket incident.
One fleeting thought crossed my mind, though. I really hope a bee doesn’t crawl into my can of flavored water. I mean, how awful would that be…and what are the actual chances?
Looking back, I missed an obvious opportunity. I could have placed something — anything — over the opening of my beverage, but I didn’t think about it. I just kept talking to people and signing books and then, when I reached for my drink, there was just a little bit left in the bottom of the can, so I tilted my head WAY back to get the last few drops…and that’s when I felt the little angry ball of a bee sqirming around in MY MOUTH. Immediately, and without warning to those around me, I spit out the contents of my mouth with a bit of a scream. And there, sitting on my yellow legal pad, was a very stunned, very wet bee. I quickly brushed it to the ground and apologized to those around me, then stared at my legal pad, wondering, What the actual HECK is going on with bugs this summer?
Head Lice?
On the way back to Evanston following the Printer’s Row Lit Fest, traffic was a nightmare, so Eric and I ditched Lake Shore Drive and stopped at one of our favorite dive restaurants on Broadway Avenue. Seated outside, we were just starting our meals when a little boy from the next table came over to pet Eric’s dog, who was curled up under my chair. I looked down at the top of the little boy’s head, smiling — then noticed things moving. Little bugs moving. Lots of little bugs moving.
“Honey,” I said to the little boy, “I think you should go back to Mom and Dad now, okay?”
Having raised three kids who’ve spent time at summer camp, I’m (unfortunately) familiar with the joys of head lice, and I’m certain that’s what that little boy had.
Once the little guy went back to his parents, I looked at Eric, shook my head, and tried not to scratch.
Oak Leaf Itch Mites
The next week, during a phone call with my therapist, I mentioned all the bug-related calamities with a bit of nervous laughter.
“How is it that all these things keep happening?” I pondered. “Am I attracting all the bugs this summer?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, arms crossed and rubbing her shoulders, “but about those bed bugs…”
“The ones we don’t have?” I asked with a sigh.
“Yeah. Have you considered it might actually be the little mites that feed on cicada eggs?”
Suddenly, I remembered an article I’d read about microscopic oak leaf itch mites wreaking havoc in areas where cicadas had been present. Initially, I was skeptical since I hadn’t seen cicadas in my neighborhood, but when I read about mite showers, and how winds can introduce the mites into far-flung areas, and that studies have shown the mites falling from trees in numbers of up to 370,000 per day, things started making sense. Turns out Eric’s bed bug exterminator wasn’t the lazy, negligent professional I’d assumed he was. We were likely dealing with oak leaf itch mites.
Fabulous.
About Cultivating Radical Acceptance
During every insect-y step of my summer of bugs, I’ve had to cultivate a mindset of radical acceptance. I’ve had to come to terms with:
— the disappointment that I didn’t get a front-row seat to the once-every-17-year cicada show
—the pain of getting stung multiple times by yellow jackets
—the work and effort required trying to contain a suspected outbreak of bed bugs
—the horror of a live bee swimming in my mouth
—the disgust and fear after seeing a little boy’s head crawling with parasites
—the embarrassment and frustration of realizing I’d wrongly assumed we had bed bugs, rather than paying better attention to current events.
In every instance above, I had to mentally step back from my assumptions and expectations and embrace what was happening. It’s not easy work, and I marvel at how many times my sense of radical acceptance was tested this summer.
What have I learned from a summer crawling with overwhelm?
It’s that what bugs us won’t kill us — unless we let it.
PROMPT: In what ways have you tried to cultivate radical acceptance? How might it best apply to your life right now?
Christine Wolf is still recovering from missing out on the 2024 U.S. Cicada Tour. When she’s not tending to her grief, you can find her working as a memoir coach, speaking to groups about her new book, and gardening in her backyard under a mighty oak (which is currently showering oak leaf itch mites).
If you’re considering using Christine’s services as a writing coach but want to test drive her methods first, you can sign up for a discounted version of her forthcoming Write To Heal Self-Guided Memoir Course.
My goodness Christine! Your summer reads like a horror film! And your reflection reminded me of something Dylan shared in his memoir about how living with ALS is like having an itch but not ever getting to scratch it. It’s quite a meditation in allowing discomfort and radical acceptance to be part of our lives. Bugs are our teachers whether we swat at them or not!