Trying to live in denial of virus

SUE CLARK

I heard about the West Nile virus-related bird deaths over in the

Dover/Mariners area a couple of weeks ago. I added it to my seemingly

inexhaustible list of things to worry about. A few days later, I went

for my weekly rheumatoid arthritis shot, and I asked my doctor if I

should be worried about the West Nile virus.

I have a mellow but brilliant rheumatologist who generally chides

me for worrying too much.

“You’re a worrier,” she once said, adding, “but you’re not a

complainer.”

That may be the first time I’ve been called a stoic, and for a

moment, I was proud. Then I realized I didn’t complain to her or the

nurses because if I don’t say any of my joints hurt, I can pretend I

don’t have rheumatoid arthritis.

Denial can be a great comfort if you have a progressive disease.

It has propelled me in a limping fashion through the last school

year, where tough-looking young rebels put their tattooed arms around

me, asking “Do your feet hurt today, Miss Clark?”

“Just a little,” I’ll answer, trying to be equally tough. I’ve

also started getting pedicures at Happy Nails, because there are so

many compassionate adolescent eyes focused on my formerly gnarly

toes.

So it was a denial-buster when the doctor said, “Yes, you should

be worried about West Nile. Please use DEET (mosquito repellent),

wear long sleeves when you go out at night, and don’t forget a hat.”

“Why a hat?” I asked, stalling for time until I really started

freaking out.

“They can bite your scalp.” she said. “Your immune system is

depressed from your arthritis medication, so you’re at risk.”

With the warm blanket of denial ripped from my shoulders, I’ve

gone into proactive mode. If the drains around Mariners are breeding

grounds, I won’t go to the Mariners Library. The central branch isn’t

that far away, and it’s open longer. I’ve also checked my back patio

for standing water. The drains in the garden appear OK, but I’ve

poured some bleach down them just in case. I had a bubbling water

fountain from a garage sale, and I’ve turned it off. I don’t think

the mosquitoes like running water, but I poured bleach in to commit

larvicide in case they were hatching in there. Much as I like the

sound of the splashing water, I am considering getting rid of it.

Anyone with a good immune system want a fountain? Better safe than

encephalitic.

I’m prepared to do battle indefinitely. I have DEET bottles by

both doors to remind myself. It’s not exactly Chanel, but it works

for my fashion statement of a long-sleeved shirt and Levis. The smell

rather complements my nouveau farmer look.

Unfortunately, my oppositional curls preclude a chapeau. Any hat

I’ve ever tried on has bounced right off my springy hair. I can’t

even keep a bathing cap on. If I’m foolish enough to try on a hat,

something only explained by physics teachers occurs, and negative

hair ions pop it off my head. I once had a boyfriend who rather

meanly told his children: “Susan doesn’t need a hat. Her hair is her

hat.” So the mosquitoes may be unable to penetrate this dense

underbrush.

By the way, is mosquito season ever over? I heard they like hot or

wet weather. Isn’t that all we have? Might there be one safe day

during a dry cold front when I can eschew the DEET and the coveralls?

I will be the one with a sleeveless tank and shorts on when it’s 40

degrees.

But I digress. Yesterday, I spotted a suspicious bite on my left

arm. I have examined it more thoroughly than King Kong did Fay Wray.

I asked my friend Dave if it looked like a mosquito bite.

“Naw, it’s more like a spidey bite,” he said, being a movie fan.

“It could be a mosquito bite, though. And if it is, your flu-like

symptoms will develop in the next three to 18 days.”

“I’ll be watching for those,” I said.

“I’m revising my will,” I added. “I have 18 days to find a lawyer.

It’s way out of date. I will need to change a few things and get my

affairs in order.”

I give Dave credit for only laughing a little when I asked if he

would adopt my dog, if necessary.

The least amusing part of this plague in our area is my avoidance

of something I had longed to see: the outdoor Shakespeare given by

the city of Newport. The tribulations endured in Richard III pale

beside an old English teacher skipping a free performance by her

favorite author. That’s a tragedy. When I miss a Shakespeare

performance, something is stagnant in Newport-Mesa.

Will you local health officials please check every bit of water,

everywhere, as soon as possible? Do what I say. I’m a teacher. Don’t

make me track you down.

Long pants and sleeves in 80-degree weather are making me want to

bite someone, too.

* SUE CLARK is a Costa Mesa resident and a high school guidance

counselor at Creekside High School in Irvine.