Yezbick.com

Kevin, Though I like your version of my divine pores opening up and becoming flammable better, that didn’t actually happen. I think somewhere, deep down, you must know that. And, for the record, it twasn’t the Christmas Holidays, it was Thanksgiving 2002. Further, are you implicating that one of the reasons that I couldn’t hear was because of my hair itself? That my very hair provides some sort of sound barrier due to it’s Yezbicky thickness? That cracks me up. It might explain why I always get music lyrics wrong.

OK, to your friend Ariel and her grave misinformation:

“One of my coworkers was bitten on the neck by a brown recluse this morning. I got to call the poison control center and see what needed to be done. Which turned out to be nothing. Wash it in soapy water and don’t worry unless you start getting dark urine. The lady I talked to said that very few people actually have bad reactions past a little infection, and that the whole thing is a bit overblown in the media right now.”

Poison Control must suck universally. When I got my spider powers (Memorial Day, 2003), I was cleaning out the tool shed for the folks for whom I housesit. Rudely, I disturbed the habitat of the reclusive brown spider, who then fell into my shirt - a turtleneck mind you - very narrow margins there, and yet it fell into my shirt, scrambled for cover, and bit down when it’s new location (my shoulder) began to move. No bigger than a quarter, this dude did some serious damage.

I took a shower an hour later, and noticed a normal sized, yet still growing spot on my shoulder. I called Mom, who knows a lot about her kids and spider bites, as my sister boasts a Black Widow bite, thus, the Hackett sisters are now recipients of bites from every species of venomous spider in the Southeast.

Essentially, I wanted to know if I should wear cute pajamas. Our conversation went like this.
J: “Mom, I’m wondering if I should wear cute pajama’s tonight.”
M: “Not a bad idea.”

Fortunately, Grama Yezbick had made me a pair of cute pajama’s, so I was all set.

This pajama business was of course, in case I had to call the ambulance to come and get me in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t want to be wearing holey pj’s in front of strangers, now would I?

At 5am, I woke up in severe pain, with a shoulder swollen to the size of at least a peach - only to grow much larger over the next two days. I called our good friends at Poison Control, who clearly go to correspondence schools of some kind. I told them I thought I had been bitten by a brown recluse, and relayed my increasing symptoms over the phone.

They told me I was a big whiner and that I had the flu. Even in my weakened state, I realized that I did not have the flu, but she was insistent, despite her lack of explanation for the swelling, painful blob on my shoulder. She told me to go back to sleep and call the doctor if I somehow didn’t feel better in a few hours.

Which I didn’t. And I spent the next 2 days in and out of Vanderbilt Hospital, watching the venom spread visibly toward my heart and brain, and in SEVERE pain. (At least I got to try Morphine.) Anyhow. I had to have babysitters for the next week or so, had an all over body rash for 3 weeks (itching at the capacity of poison ivy + chicken pox + mosquito bites), and generally was not myself.

The venom stayed in my body for the next 20 weeks, which provided a nice excuse for anything I did that was unusual. Eventually, the giant, igor-like hump on my shoulder began to shrink, and got all the way down to a tiny little scab that refused to come off, causing my cousin Mark to chase me around the yard with a pair of pruning shears, threatening to cut it off. Good times.

Hope that clears up the misinformation campaign. If I learned anything through this process, it was to ICE any bite that seems sketchy. Ice halts the spread of venom, I learned too late.

Thank you, tip your wait staff, I’ll be here all week.

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