In three years of treating my multiple infectious diseases, I haven’t spend much time with treatments to target babesiosis. Maybe because it’s an elusive illness — one that most doctors say, “You don’t say. . .” when I tell them I have it. Babesiosis is one the “rare” illnesses. Or so they say. They are now screening our blood supply for it, because it’s appearing there so often. But the standard medical folks call it rare. I call it evil. Nasty. Wicked. And those are just the PG-13 acceptable words.
The babesiosis life cycle is fascinating. In this image, they say that humans are a dead-end host. Oh, how my children wish that were true. Not true. Oh, and people rarely think of ticks being in the city, but every time I see a mouse, I know they aren’t far behind. Wikipedia’s image proves that. But I digress.
One of my Lyme friendly doctors told me that depression is the greatest psychiatric symptom from Babesia, and since I’m usually more of an anxiety gal than a depression gal (same thing, yes I know), and my depression has been increasing, he made me promise I’d start taking these meds.
Despite my resistance, I’m doing it. And I’m increasing the strength of the treatment as tolerated. But today, many weeks into the treatment, I am faced with the mother of all babesia herxes. Much like a complex dance sequence, this was my day: FEVER. BITCH. SHAKE. CRY. FEVER. PAIN. REPEAT. Yep. The fever is my favorite. Gives me a preview into hot flashes, which are right around the corner. I’m sure the bitch part is nobody’s favorite.
But I keep plugging on. FEVER. BITCH. SHAKE. CRY. FEVER. PAIN. REPEAT. Hopefully tomorrow will be a different combination.