Love tap from a brown recluse?

My finger hasn't reached this point of desperation yet but I am thinking it is only a matter of time. I woke up around 3:30 AM scratching my left pinkie finger relentlessly. The kind of scratching that when you stop, you noticed you nearly removed all viable flesh right down to the bone. 

I have never done well when it comes to itchiness. Give me a broken nose and all I need is a nostril plug. Perhaps knee surgery? Wrap it in an ace bandage and send me on my way. But a sun rash, mosquito bite, a healing scrape and you can count on agonizing misery equal if not worse than Chinese water torture.

I know exactly when the bite occurred.  With my eyes stuck on the trail, scanning for snakes that frequent this particular area, I gently brushed my hands across the tall growing reeds that grew to my left. I love the feeling of their soft texture tickling my fingertips so I clenched one and drew it from the ground, twisting it round and round. 

Had his home been more obvious, possibly more web-like, I would have thought twice about disrupting it. I don't particularly like being bumped by strangers either. The worst is at summer music festivals when the temperatures are oven-like and large, drunk, hairy arms slide into you without even a pause to recognize there had been a collision. But do I dig my teeth into them? Imagine instead, that same sweaty gross person, opens his arms, bear hugs you and shakes you up and down? Biting him then might cross my mind. So in this case, it was my mistake, lifting the reed and jostling this creatures' comfort zone. 

I didn't see him bite me. I couldn't even tell you if it was an actual spider. Maybe it was an ant or a very stealth hornet, but minutes after picking that thing I felt a sting. I looked down and a  very minuscule red dot was now centered on the more distal portion of my pinkie. It didn't hurt. Just another blemish on my perfectly pale, Irish skin.

When I showed my mom the swelling which was infringing on my ability to bend, she gasped. "A brown recluse? If it changes color, get it checked."

I looked at it again and saw all colors of the rainbow. It IS changing colors! And are those fang marks? I felt my veins pump with poison. Today could be my last.  Where can I get my necroses hand on anti-venom at this hour?

Of course I immediately googled it. Top symptoms include redness (check), itching (double check) small little bumps that later turn to bursting blisters (surely on the way).  As I browsed the images that came up I saw evidence that spider bites are something not to ignore. Like when a large car accident occurs, and eyes can't turn away from the gruesome pileup, I too couldn't draw my stare away from these grotesque images. Deep, necrotic tissue coined 'volcano lesions' ranging from black, blue and yellow with infection to red burn-like splotches.

My pinkie problem all of a sudden didn't seem so bad when I came upon  one mans inner groin which appeared to be splashed in a wave of patterns. I surely would be able to function at nearly 100 percent capacity sans one digit, but this man may never again relive an intimate embrace. Poor guy.

We always made fun of Charlie in his younger years, for sleeping with a can of Raid in hand, available to aerosol spray the little culprits to death. Now, I think it is an ingenious idea. My incomplete hand will never forgive me on how I could have prevented such thoughtless accidents had I just had a can of Raid on me. 

From the image below you may note that Salt Lake doesn't fall within any of the shaded areas. I felt a bit relieved as well, until I read that the recluse is a 'spreading species' and although it is rare, they can be found in undiscovered areas. Damn.

As of 4:45 my vital signs seem stable. There are, however, sporadic spasms in my left forearm of unknown origin.  Don't be such a drama queen you say? Its just potassium deficits and the workings of the sarcoplasmic reticulum? More likely than not, it is result of a fresh blood supply being blocked by my breakfast sausage looking finger. I better stop all this typing as not to provoke throbbing pain.  Than again, this may be the last time all ten fingers make an appearance on my keyboard. Oh what could have been!