A Squirrel Bit Me

I go inside the mind of a squirrel & the American healthcare system, while an injection loaded with the rabies vaccine goes into my butt.

Hi,

It was both our faults. I maintain it was both our faults.

It was another normal walk in the park; my usual route that takes me through a woody little glen before ascending up a dusty path into the hills.

They saw me first because they were the one running in my direction. More specifically, they were scampering down a tree as I walked under it. The squirrel stopped at my eye height — about two feet away from my face — and just stared at me. And I stared back.

Slowly, it extended its tiny squirrel hand towards me.

I’ve seen enough Disney films and I knew what this meant: Friendship. I extended my hand back, and its squirrel hand shook my human finger.

It was a beautiful moment until that little fucking squirrel bit directly into my finger, hard.

I had become that guy. The guy I feared the most: The guy taking a selfie at the edge of a cliff. The guy showing off his abs in the waves before dropping his phone to the bottom of the ocean. The guy standing alone in a park taking a photo as a squirrel prepares to have a munch on his finger.

I’d documented my stupidity and my certainty that all squirrels are quirky Disney characters that speak in high pitched voices and have zero violence in their hearts. I’d documented my idiocy.

“This isn’t particularly great” I thought, cutting my walk short to go home and throw some sanitiser on the puncture wound. At least it was a clean entry. Squirrel teeth are sharp.

I messaged a friend, telling them about the chain of events. Apparently I was to blame.

They had no sympathy for me. Zero.

In my defense, we don’t have squirrels in New Zealand. In my mind they are still a (cute) novelty, and so the cute factor is yet to wear off. The other thing we don’t have in New Zealand? Rabies.

I did a quick Google for “What do I do if a squirrel bites me”.

“After being attacked by a squirrel, seek medical attention quickly. Individuals will need to rely on their observations of the encounter to ensure an accurate diagnosis. It is particularly vital that individuals with head and muscle aches, high temperatures, and nausea or vomiting after being bitten see a physician right away.”

I wouldn’t call it an attack per se, but then I don’t know what category “teeth buried in finger” should be put into.

The human rabies imagery online was all pretty bleak:

A man dying from rabies in Russia, care of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's Public Health Image Library

I was scared of rabies, but I was also scared of the American healthcare system. I have the cheapest insurance I could find: A $350 per month HMO plan with a company called Anthem, which seems like a lot of money to me.

My basic HMO plan means I can only see specific healthcare providers on a fairly short list — and they’ll still cost money to see.

Friends have plans that run into $700+ territory. I got health insurance because I don’t want to be $250,000 in debt when someone shoots me, or hits me with a car.

I figured I’d go to bed and see if I woke up the next day with any aches, pains, or distinct desire to vomit.

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The next day I felt perky. I didn’t feel like I had rabies. I looked back at the photo and thought “that squirrel does not look sick” to myself.

I was fine.

I would be fine.

I enjoyed my day, and I went to bed.

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I woke up and lazily told a group chat I’m in what had happened. This is actually what Webworm regular Hayden Donnell had to say about it. He’d lived in London for a time, and had strong opinions on squirrels:

Rabies flooded back into my mind. I Wikipedia’d it, and it didn’t sound particularly pleasant:

“Nausea, vomiting, violent movements, uncontrolled excitement, fear of water, an inability to move parts of the body, confusion, and loss of consciousness.

Once symptoms appear, the result is virtually always death, regardless of treatment.”

The fear of water sounds ridiculous but it’s very true — this incredibly disturbing video of a rabies patient shows the reality of this.

It all sounded bad, especially the death. Another fact that scared me is that symptoms can appear in a month… but they can also appear in six years. So I might think I was fine for six years, then boom: rabies.

My mind started running through a sort of cost-benefit analysis. Did I dive headfirst into the well-documented perils of the American healthcare system, or did I chance it?

According to the CDC rabies is rare, but annually hundreds of thousands of animals are kept under observation or tested for the virus — and 30,000 to 60,000 people need to get vaccinated.

I decided to do a virtual doctor’s visit session thanks to an App on my phone. Reason for visit: “Bitten by a squirrel” I typed. I was lined up with several available American doctors who didn’t seem keen to talk rabies with me:

Eventually, one took the case — and they told me very unequivocally that I needed to go and see a doctor, in person, immediately.

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I called my doctor’s office to make an appointment. “We can’t do that today, you will have to go to an ER” they told me.

The cost benefit-analysis raised its ugly head again. A visit to my doctor would have set me back $45. A visit to the ER would be $400. I sighed. “The result is virtually always death, regardless of treatment.”

I went to the ER.

A Los Angeles Emergency Room is sort of what you imagine it to be: Hectic.

Every seat was taken by every type of human, in various types of disrepair. Hospitals always level the playing field, a constant reminder that we are all the same sad sacks of meat and organs, loosely held together by some muscle and bones.

Around me today were old bones and young bones; some pregnant, some yelling.

I made my way to a receptionist hidden inside their perspex cage and handed over my insurance card. I asked what it would cost to get rabies shots. He shrugged and said I’d have to talk to ask my health insurance company. Medical treatment is such a strange thing to purchase. What other product is a mystery price until after you’ve purchased it?

My wait time was unknown, and my Tuesday turned into an informal purgatory.

Hours went by, and I was eventually rewarded with an armband, before being marched through into a second waiting area. There’s more — surprise — waiting.

I finally got to tell my first in-person medical professional what had happened two days ago — and they dissolved into laughter.

I’m not sure if it’s my accident, my accent, or the way I delivered the information — but she found it very funny. She cackled.

Another hour of waiting, and I finally got to see a doctor. She was short and stout and seemed to know what she was talking about.

She said squirrel bites aren’t very common, which I found quite surprising considering how many squirrels exist in LA.

Her next question puzzled me a little: “Did you provoke it?” she asked.

I asked her what she meant by “provoked”, and she explained she’d had a woman in last week who’d been badly scratched by a squirrel — but she was feeding it. So she’d provoked it. No shot for her.

I told her the squirrel had come towards me and reached out for me, and that I’d reached out back. Then the bite happened. It was strange talking to a doctor about the mindset of a squirrel — figuring out if it was provoked, or if it attacked. I suppose the real question is whether the squirrel’s brain is melting from rabies.

I told her I didn’t particularly want a rabies shot, but was just following the advice I got. This was my first squirrel bite. It was uncharted waters. But the verdict was in: “You need a rabies shot” she said.

A rabies shot is a misleading term, because they break the shot up into four different shots. Apparently RABAVERT needs to be distributed all around the body. With some big needles.

I got jabbed in the left arm, the right arm, my thigh and my butt. I didn’t want the butt shot: It’s embarrassing. This felt more like an acupuncture session than an inoculation.

Six hours waiting for this.

And then the clincher: “You need to come back and do this three more times,” I was told. Friday, the following Tuesday, and then the Tuesday after that.

I guess that’s my month’s entertainment sorted.

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I woke up today with the worst headache of my life, which I assume is the vaccine.

I’m still not sure about the cost benefit analysis. I’m pretty sure that ER visit is going to cost me $400. Then I realised when I go back there for shot two, it’ll be another $400. Shot three: $400. Shot four: $400. That’s $1600, minimum — then any other charges the hospital decides to throw on top of that.

I wish there was another option. My doctor says they won’t do it. Specialist travel agencies charge $550 per hit. Pharmacies have it listed on their websites, but all the ones I called said “no”. Urgent care (like an ER-lite) — nada.

On the plus side, if I did happen to contract rabies — now I won’t die. Plus, I’m now protected to go and shake hands with other animals: Bats, possums, skunks, and maybe a couple of raccoons. Nothing is off limits.

On the negative side — am I protected? Because after all this, I checked LA County’s advice for doctors administering the rabies vaccine, and there in bold: do not give it in the gluteal muscles.

David.

PS: I’m curious what health insurance is like where you’re from. If you’re up for it, sound off in the comments about where in the world you are, and what you pay (or don’t pay) for health insurance. And I’m curious to hear about any first hand experiences you’ve had using your local healthcare system. What did it end up costing you? Was it covered? Have you ever avoided treatment because it was just going to cost too much?