My body tensed, anticipating the brief, searing pain as the desperate bee thrust its venom into my skin. The poor bee. It was ultimately myself who knowingly sacrifices this innocent insect and its fellow hive mates for my personal benefit. As each stinger punctured my skin, the barbs caught into the initial epidermis layer. As the tweezers lifted each bee off of me, the barbs prevented the stinger’s release and the bees’ abdomens split open. An inevitable and gruesome death.
What number are we on? It was my daughter’s turn. This was, in fact, a “family affair.” Like the complex job of each bee in the hive, everyone in my family had a role. Craig, only ten, was the self-proclaimed expert on handling the bees for this purpose. He took the job seriously as he eagerly gathered stories to later share with his cronies during recess. Terra, only six, was SURE she was just as competent as her older brother and just wanted to be mommy’s nurse. Thankfully, Tim was there to navigate their enthusiasm and their hands as they took turns, gingerly holding the long-nose tweezer with a flailing and angry bee on the tip, guiding it out of the mesh-covered box through the tiny hole made for that purpose. The ice cube on my back was removed and the bee was then held onto my cold, reddened skin.
My role was to fight the tears and not twitch in pain for each of the twenty stings.
BST, or “Bee Sting Therapy,” was the latest of my many attempts to combat the growing number of physical challenges multiple sclerosis had brought to my life. Bee sting therapy had helped my friend, Amy, with her arthritis. It was currently being studied by the MS Society and other organizations. There were so many promising claims on the internet for energy level and functionality. The manual I had ordered months ago touted success even dating back to ancient cultures, its diagrams clearly illustrating the method and acupuncture sites to use. There MUST be something to it. My doctor did not think so.
Yet, I was desperate. It was clear that my legs had progressed to yet another, less functional level and I was not sure that I would be able to walk much longer. It was winter and I had been regularly scanning our snow-covered yard from the living room couch. One day, it was uncharacteristically warm and a few bees had ventured out of their hive to investigate the possibility of an early spring. Tim joined me on the couch, watched the bees with me, reluctantly listening once again to my litany of accumulated physical and functional losses endured in the last several months. It had not been a good year. I had started needing to “wall walk,” then progressed to a single pole, shortly afterward needing both poles and then a walker. Now even that was difficult. I was exhausted. My hopes of it “all going away” was clearly not reality. We finally agreed that it was time to try another strategy.
We started that winter.
Tim collected the bees from the hive for a few months, knocking on the snow-covered structure to catch the guards who ventured out of the hive’s small doorway to protect their queen. His jar was always ready. The brave souls had no chance. After several months, it was clear that the hive was not strong enough to sustain the multiple trips out of the hive into the cold winter air. The community weakened until it eventually disappeared. Now a small mesh covered box of humming bees was regularly sent from a medical bee supply farm in California…the lady from our post office calling each month nervously to report, “your bees are in…can you pick them up TODAY?!”
Bees are such gentle creatures. Not an adjective most people consider when stepping on one in the yard or accidentally interrupting a nest in the woods. Memories of tiny tongues licking the honey off of my fingers when Tim showed me his two hives early in our courtship caused me now to smile. The bees had tickled my fingertips, making me giggle nervously. Watching the bees furiously buzz around Tim each time he gently worked the hive, it was clear that they trusted this white-clad man with the heavy gloves and large hat. They in turn pollinated his garden, helping produce robust crops of basil, tomatoes, garlic and peppers. The two hives produced a steady hum, adding to the sound of the rolling waves on nearby Alki Beach, to produce an ambiance unique to our tiny beach home. Even our neighbors loved Tim’s bees. The bees were a source of joy on sunny days as we watched the insects venture out to find pollen to feed their queen and her young brood. And they brought sorrow after a hornet attack when many headless bees were strewn around the opening and base of the hive.
The arrival of Craig a year after we were married required the move from our tiny, single-room beach home to the large unfinished mountain house tucked between the bases of Mount Si and Mount Tenerife, an hour’s drive away from the beachfront of Seattle to the mountains surrounding North Bend. Watching the bees now from the porch of our new home in the woods, I often think of the many mornings spent on the front porch of our beach cabin, enjoying the buzz of bees as they began their morning journeys from their sun-soaked hive to the garden. Here they would have more room to roam, like our children would. There were foxglove, heather and other meadow flowers. There were fruit trees nearby at the neighbors. Yet, shortly after our move, those productive workers had been nearly decimated by the black bear that visited not one, but two nights in a row to gather honey. The winters were also harsh, the drizzle of Seattle’s winter rain replaced with higher elevation snow. Yet the queen survived and the hive seemed to thrive.
Now bees were the source of yet another treatment for my battle against MS. The bees would hopefully help stall the progression of the insidious spread of plaque on the myelin meant to protect my nerves from breaking down. They might stop the weakening of my runner’s legs and allow me to climb and bike again. The energy these creatures unwillingly gave in their final powerful thrust would hopefully transfer to my fatigued body.
Returning to the living room couch, I noted that my lower back was aching a bit. My stomach on the cushions caused an uncomfortable arch on my spine. Twelve pink spots on my back and six on my legs clearly marked the “map” of sting sites. The “team” was nearly finishing. Yet, those final ankle sites would be the worst.
“Yes, I’m OK,” I answered as Terra saw me flinch and wanted to make sure she had not hurt mommy.
“Really?” Her adorable, brown pixie face was level with mine as she crouched next to my face by the couch…chocolate orbs staring directly into my eyes.
“Yes, Terra…you are really helping mommy!”
Satisfied, Terra returned to my feet to wait for her next turn. It was now Craig removing the ice and holding the tweezers near my left ankle.
Brace.
First Craig, then Terra on the right ankle.
Done.
Tim retrieved the tweezers and deftly removed each stinger from my skin. He guided the two young assistants to the kitchen, knowing that I now needed time. It took a few minutes to let the pain subside as I visualized the poison surging through my body. Slowly, I stood up, gathered the litter of dead bees onto one of the discarded rags, picked up the tweezers and ice cube tray, and wiped the melting ice. After a few deep breaths, I joined my clan in the kitchen, knowing I had a forty-eight-hour reprieve before the next treatment.
“What’s for dinner?!”
Epilogue: My Bee Sting “Therapy” lasted a little over a year. We concurrently tried to monitor the research being conducted through the MS Society, in the Netherlands and through other sources during that year. One study found no improvement, except reported improved energy. When another study was discontinued due to the thought that BST may actually increase the production of plaque internally (while seeming to temporarily help with external symptoms), we discontinued the “therapy.” My energy did seem to improve, but it was not worth the postulation that the venom may accelerate an already overactive immune system.
Author: Lucinda Hauser
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