"It's That Time of the Year"

"It's that time of the year" is a phrase bandied about by me quite regularly.  The actual  application and its meaning varies depending upon what time of the year "that" time is.  It may be a reference to cold, gray fog and the gray moods that accompany it, or I might be talking about the excitement and near-hysteria of the grandgirls as Christmas nears.  An approaching school year with school clothes shopping and the beginning of a disciplined routine are also described as "that time of the year."   It is a term applied to a specific occurrence in a specific time frame that is repeated year after year.

Very recently, I've heard myself saying that about wasps, stirring up some fear and trepidation within me.  It literally is "that time of the year."  Some of you may know what I'm talking about; some of you may not.  For whatever reason, wasps become very temperamental, very cranky, and downright mean as the temperatures become warmer--from mid-summer on, pretty much.  They take on a definite spirit of aggression and have no problem expressing themselves in an attack and conquer mode.

In my twelve seasons of gardening every time I've tangled with them it has been during this time of the year, from the end of July until temperatures get cooler and dampness returns.  And I've tangled with them almost every year.  The thing about wasps is that they have the advantage.  They are almost always hidden, tucked away, and they know where we humans are long before we find them. 

In years past I've considered them a nuisance, an annoyance, even when I encountered a nest in a rhododendron bush I was pruning.  My approach was to swat and kill, leaving the area as quickly as possible.  All that changed last season.

A year ago, while vigorously digging weeds, I drove my horry-horry, a Japanese weeding tool, straight into a wasps' nest buried in the ground.  I'm not sure why I hadn't noticed them entering and leaving, but I hadn't.  They immediately covered my hand and forearm, my ankle and lower leg, stinging ferociously.  I read that when one swats at a wasp, an alarm signal in the form of a scent is sent out within 15 seconds, attracting fellow female wasps, as they are the ones who sting. They hunt down and sting many, many times.  I can attest to that fact.  I have no idea how many stings there were, but a lot of venom entered my body.

Shaken, I assured my co-worker that I was fine and tried to continue working but decided to sit in the truck instead.  My blood pressure must have risen as I could feel my heartbeat pounding.  I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself and to get rid of a strange feeling, a really strange feeling.  I assured my client that I was breathing well, but the consensus was that I needed to go home.  I had been working in the country, half an hour away and, by the time I was home, I had a full-blown case of head-to-toe hives.  Virtually every inch of my body manifest them. 

A few days later, I found myself telling another of my clients, an ER physician, what had happened, comfortable in my perception that I had not had an allergic reaction as my breathing wasn't affected.  Gary's eyes widened as he exclaimed, "Ladonna, that was an allergic reaction," and spelled out the definition of one and offered to call in a prescription for a bee sting kit to carry in my truck.

Already this year two people have told me of being stung, and I find myself going into a high-alert mode.  I do not want to live my life in fear and have been wrestling with my Heavenly Father as to how to live with this reality, this possibility.  It was a very present issue yesterday as I was traipsing through sal al, grubbing out blackberry vines, not that different from walking through a mine field.  Any place I stepped carried with it an after-the-fact situation.  One never really knows where a wasps' ground nest is until you collide with them. 

I told myself that I was afraid, but that wasn't fear.  How brilliant is that thinking?  Not!!  What I did realize is that I am not afraid of dying, but my personal preference would be to not relive a wasp encounter.  Wrestling, trying to find a solid base, I finally heard myself say, "My life is in Your hands."  I've heard that phrase expressed many times before, and I'm not sure that I haven't used it, but this time I heard and felt the truth and reality of it. 

I am not saying that I'm out of the woods on this one yet.  One day at a time, and I made it successfully through yesterday.  It is "that time of the year," and I still have a ways to go on this part of my journey.  The good thing is that I'm not walking it alone and, even with a bee sting kit in my truck, my life is in God's hands.