I’m currently nursing a bee sting on the index finger of my left hand. The hand is swollen enough that I’m having considerable trouble typing.
I can’t blame the bee. She was doing her job. A giant creature was ripping out all the vegetation in front of her home, and what would a bee think the purpose of such a thing to be? Why, attacking the hive, of course. Her job was protecting the hive, and this was the third time in four days that the giant creature had assaulted her home.
I think that’s why she and her compatriots were so persistent in chasing me down. Before, when I’ve gone around the corner of the garage and out of sight of the hive, they have settled back down fairly quickly. This time, I was standing a ways down the driveway and they were still determined to drive me further away.
As a counter-measure, I put my hand in the air, pinkie and thumb out in the “no worries” pose, and flickered it back and forth. The shadow resembles a chimney swift, and bees generally flee from it.
Not this time. This time I felt the sharp bite of a sting. Apparently I pushed my hand up just where Miss Thang was flying, and she tagged me. I’d been calm to this point, since I was wearing a bee net and long pants and sleeves. But I had on garden gloves, vented in the back, rather than bee gloces. Cursing my stupidity came into the house, peeled off the glove, checked for a stinger, cleaned it up, and went back to work–in a completely different section of the garden. I could definitely feel it, but it wasn’t that bad.
By the time we walked to the movie theater last night I was holding it up in the air to keep the swelling down. By this morning it was definitely swollen. Now, despite Benadryl, I can almost watch it swell more. And I feel a bit achy in my joints. I’ve always reacted dramatically to bug bites, but believe me, there will be no gardening today!