True love is head lice, and other realizations

I spent last night on the couch, waking every forty minutes or so to again try not to scratch my head and neck.  You're just imagining it, I would tell myself.  Then I would flip over, readjust my pillow and blanket, pretend I wasn't too cold to sleep, and try not to think about the possibility that right then, dozens of head lice were feeding and breeding on my defenseless scalp.

I'd been itchy for a week or so.  I noticed it most during shifts at work when I was running around a lot busy and a little sweaty.  Well, it is hard work.  Must be some major winter dryness, I remember thinking.  Once, I checked my six-year-old's head to see if *I* might have lice.  Nah, he was clean so I was, too.  Everyone knows that if your household gets hit by lice, it was brought home by the kid who is in school.  

Yesterday morning I woke without an alarm clock for the first time in forever.  I was supposed to be relaxing, and I had big plans to paint and meditate and read and NAP, but I couldn't shake a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I was filled with dread.  I told my lapsed-Catholic Irish-Italian husband about my premonition which only stirred up his superstitious side.  I considered telling him he couldn't take the kids with him to visit family but the worry began to wane, and off they all went. 

After they left, I decided to take a shower.  I shampooed my (presumably winter-dry) hair and then looked down.  What is that?!!  I washed it again.  Two, three...is that a fourth?  I squinted at the dark spots on my hands.  I turned off the shower and dried my hands.  I pulled up the internet and did a search: "Bugs in hair not lice?" It brought me pictures of head lice.  No matter how I worded my desperate pleas of denial, the universe sighed, heavily, and fed me the truth in photo form.  

[expletive deleted]  Dude, you have head lice.

Dude.

My husband and kids were off visiting his family and this was supposed to be a relaxing morning to myself before work which rapidly deteriorated into mild queasiness, a mental tally of all the laundry we would need to wash, and a warning call to my MIL when I couldn't get ahold of the spouse, who was still on a long bike ride.  I followed him on Garmin LiveTrack and cursed him when he didn't stop to call me back.

I called out of work and rushed to the drug store.  When the cashier asked how I was, I told her I'd been better.  Then she looked down at my items--two generic lice solution kits and a fancy package of combs and magnifying glass with a light.  Truthfully, I had no idea what I needed, I just felt better buying something.  She nodded in commiseration.  "I've been there," she said, "I had little kids, too."

To that point, I assumed the whole family was likewise infested and that we were going to have a battle when they returned.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  Everyone had a good wash with the kit to be safe, but it appeared that in my home I was Patient Zero, which makes sense because I've always been lucky.

I tossed and turned all night on the couch, then decided I must have those super lice I've heard about.  Working in a medical facility, you better believe anything you catch there is going to be hardy.  Pure luck.

Embarrassed (but not too embarrassed to admit it now), I had my husband call urgent care and ask if it was possible for me to be seen--or, better, just to have pity and write me a prescription for the demons on my scalp.  Yeah, I went in.

They assigned me the coolest nurse with the most beautiful, long and free-flowing gray hair.  This seemed like a mistake.  It would take hours to comb out all of her hair with that little plastic lice comb.  And these were lice on steroids!  Undeterred, she assured me that 1. she had previously been deloused on an international medical aid trip to Africa and 2. I wouldn't have to shave my head.

I returned home with my prescriptions (one was a mercy filling of an anti-itch med that also helps you sleep), a little bit of hope, and a note for missing work which always makes me feel like a little kid.

After showering with the new stuff, I sat on the edge of the tub while my husband spend the next hour trying to snip out anything even faintly resembling an egg.  I felt great love for him as he meticulously searched my entire head.  I reminded him that he was only supposed to sip the single strand of hair that had the egg on it.  "Hmm...oops," he muttered to himself.  I sat, helplessly, as he cut thick sections out of my hair.  I said nothing as he repeated this ruthless but well-intentioned butchering side-to-side and front-to-back and then around again for good measure.  I'm still not sure what it looks like, because I thanked him, with genuine gratitude, and then headed downstairs without looking in the mirror.

I might just skip the mirror for a while.