Maybe you remember how we had a bat in our house in January? And how the pest control people, led by Donny, the two-fingered man, came and supposedly sealed up the places where bats could get in?
Well, it didn’t take, and last Monday evening, at about 7pm, there was another bat careening around my living room. The boys and I ran screaming out onto the porch, and bat followed shortly after. Since then, we’ve been bat-free, but that may be because I’ve been leaving every light in the house on all night.
So, I thought the worst of this was that I would have to wrangle with the pest control people about coming back to finish the job. But then, last Friday, I heard two separate stories, about two different local families, who had had bats in the house, and had been told by their doctors that they all needed rabies shots.
Because rabid bats can bite you while you’re sleeping and you’d never even know. No. Really. They can.
I was equal parts disbelieving and freaked out by this bit of information. Our bats didn’t act the least bit rabid, and we never touched them (that we know of). But someone says “rabies” in the same breath as “your children” and it’s really all over.
So: I called our pediatrician’s office this morning to get advice. And, sure enough, it turns out to be a NC state law that if you have been exposed to bats you need a post-exposure rabies shot. Because rabid bats can bite you while you’re sleeping and you’d never even know. No, really, they can.
But, and here’s kicker #1: the clinics don’t stock post-exposure rabies vaccine. The only place to get it is the emergency room. Or maybe the County Health Dept, said the nurse at my pediatrician’s office.
I called the
At this point, I called my insurance company. Now, I have very good health insurance, but nevertheless they told me that even though they would pay for the vaccine, I would still have an ER co-pay of $250 for each of us for each visit (kicker #2). The shots are given in a series of 3-4 shots. So, 3 x 3 x 250. I pretty much started to cry when I did that math.
Then, our wonderful pediatrician herself called and said, “It doesn’t sound like much exposure to me—maybe you don’t need to do that. Let me make a few calls.” I was hopeful for a few minutes, but then she called back and said, “yes, you need to go into the ER and start the shots: rabid bats can bite you while you’re sleeping and you’d never even know.” The only good news she had is that after the first shot, the boys can get the rest of them in her office, which will save me most of those $250 co-pays.
It was the middle of the day by this point, and I figured there was no point waiting for the ER to get busier. H. was already home from school with some kind of minor stomach thing (rabies? Probably not, says the pediatrician), so I grabbed J. from pre-school, and we headed into the ER of the excellent teaching hospital that is conveniently nearby.
And there we were for the next three hours. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent 2+ hours in a small cubicle with a lot of expensive medical equipment and two small healthy boys, but I wouldn’t recommend it—it’s like being inside one of those bouncy castles at a school fair, except with sharp things. H. had his DS with him, and I take back all the curses I’ve heaped on that thing, because it mostly kept him occupied for the duration. J., however, was literally hurling himself at the walls by the end of hour two.
Finally, they rounded up the immunoglobulin shots for the boys (I won’t even tell you how many steps that took). The eight-year-old cried through his four shots and the four-year-old laughed through his three.
Since we were in the pediatric section of the ER, for a while it looked like they weren’t going to be able to give me my shots there at all, and I was going to have to go back out and wait some more. But they figured out a way around that, thank goodness.
Another nurse handed me three Tylenol tablets. “Really?” I said She nodded. I took the pills.
An then we were into the comic portion of our adventure. Two cute young female nurses and one cute young male paramedic trainee had given the boys their shots. But for whatever reason, the girl nurses went away, and a big male nurse came to give me mine. The paramedic trainee stayed.
Whereas the boys had gotten their shots in the arm, I got five shots: one in the arm; one in each thigh; and one in each hip. And for “hip,” read upper butt cheek.
So just in case you thought motherhood allowed you to retain even a shred of dignity, picture this: there I am in the cubicle with four guys—my two sons, the nurse and the paramedic—dropping my pants. Miraculously, I had managed to take a shower that morning, but I really cannot answer for my underwear.
“They’re professionals,” I said frantically to myself, trying not to completely dissolve into embarrassed giggles, “they’ve seen much worse than my middle-aged thighs, right?”
H. remained resolutely focused on his DS, but J. watched the whole thing with utter glee. “Mama. I can see your underwear,” he announced delightedly; and then, even more happily, “Mama! I can see your blood.”
And then we were finally done. We’re lucky, of course—we’re healthy and not in pain, unlike the poor kid in the adjacent cubicle, and I have great insurance. But still: ugh.
On the bright side, though, I’m thinking of turning off some of the lights tonight—‘cause what’s the worst that can happen? Even if a bat does bite us in our sleep and we never even know, we won’t get rabies.
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