Naegleria Fowleri - Summer 2019

                I’m an idiot. The sign read: “Warning, do not allow water to enter your nose. Naegleria Fowleri, an amoeba common to thermal pools may enter causing a rare infection and death.”

                Not that I looked at the sign. Not that I’ve ever looked at the sign. I usually roll into the Keough Hot Springs, South of Bishop, late at night and jump right in. 

Fortunately, my family is infinitely smarter than I am.

                “Dad, what are you doing?” Michael says.

                “Blowing my nose underwater,” I smile back at him. “Kinda gross, hunh?”

                “The sign says not to do that.”

                “Really?”

                “Yeah.” Michael raises his adorable eyebrows to emphasize the point. “Don’t let water enter your nose. You could die.”

                A week later I’m analyzing any feeling in my body just to see if I might have one of the symptoms.

                “It was headache, fever, stiff neck, loss of appetite, vomiting, altered mental state, then eventually seizures and coma. Is that right?” I ask.

                “What is it? What do you feel?” Wifey asks.

                “Just a little headache. And I took Jane climbing yesterday so I’m a bit stiff.”

                “This 15-day waiting period can’t end soon enough.”

                There’s a treatment but diagnosing the disease can take weeks and according to the CDC, these “free-living amoeba” infections are low incidence but high impact, meaning quite rare, but deadly. And I’ve been swimming in natural hot springs for years without a 2nd thought to Naegleria Fowleri. The Mayo clinic says that millions of people are exposed to the amoeba every year, but only a handful get sick.

                I still feel like an idiot for doing the exact thing that the sign said not to do.

                The one benefit of this fixation on my mortality has been the crystallization of priorities for me, like time with my family.

                “Dad, your voices for Harry Potter are really good tonight.”

                “Thanks, Michael.”

It helps that we took the holiday week to go rock climbing and backpacking in the Eastern Sierra. It was awesome, hiking and camping and playing in lakes and streams full of frozen snow melt. Michael got a new multi-day backpack and Jane bought an ultra-light camping chair. Wifey overpacked big time.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought those 2 hammocks, a bottle of wine, and ukelele. And I don’t know about these boots from the thrift shop.” Wifey looks down at her feet. “It was fine going uphill, but back down; ouch.”

We hoofed it into the mountains north of Bishop until we hit snow and camped out for two nights, playing cards, reading books, and goofing off. After roughing it for 3 days, we ended up in Mammoth for mountain biking and skiing on the 4th of July. It was an amazing trip with lots of adventures and laughter.

                “So, if that’s it for me, I can’t think of a better way to have spent my last week here on earth.”  I smile and tell Wifey.

                “Stop it.” Wifey says and hits me.

                “So, what do you think of the column so far?” I ask.

                “It’s a little morbid and sucky,” Wifey says. “You know… it’s just kinda sad. People will be like, ‘How depressing.’”

                “Yeah,” I agree. “So much for Tahoe Dad.”

                “Stop saying that. It’s rare.” Wifey says. “Maybe more fun anecdotes in the column, like Jane’s meltdown over the non-ham hamburger.”  

                “Yeah, I wanted ham in my hamburger!” Jane yells a little too loud over my shoulder.

                “Tough lesson, but a good one to learn.” I agree. “Kind of like swimming with brain-eating amoeba.”

                “You could also talk about how we were a train wreck at the airport last month.” Wifey ignores my last death reference.

                “That’s right,” I say. “United’s ‘basic economy’ no carry-on thing. We were a total scene.”

                “Daddy tried to throw his ukulele in the trash can,” Jane laughs.

                “Hey, they weren’t leaving me much choice.” I shake my head. “And you ruined your spray tan by crying over your big tub of confiscated face cream.”

                “That mean man!” Jane says.

                “There was also the cactus incident,” I say. “You remember that, Jane?”

                “Yeah, don’t sit on them.”

                “That’s right, Kiddo.”  

                The fun we’ve had over the past month feels sweeter than it would have. Wifey had a 40th birthday dance party in our new home. Jane overcame some mental mountain-biking obstacles and is tearing it up on the trail. Michael literally carried his own tent, pad, sleeping bag, water, clothing, and entertainment on our backpacking trip. And all those milestones feel somehow brighter and more vivid to me with the nagging possibility of death by amoeba lurking over my shoulder. It’s so weird.

                In another week, when I haven’t expired yet, I still want to read Harry Potter to Michael with the same enthusiasm and sprint uphill next to Jane’s mountain bike to ensure that she doesn’t quit, and dance with Wifey whenever she wants. Living with the thought of death is somehow fuller than without.