Out There: The Worm and I | Outside Online

You Are Here:

Home >> The Worm and I (continued)

Today's Question
How do you make primitive snowshoes? answer

What should you do if you get lost driving in a snow storm? answer

Today's Question
What is the greenest ski and snowboard on the market? answer

Can I really damage a coral reef with sunscreen while snorkeling? answer

What kind of dog will make me look manlier? answer
Is there a sport that safely combines my twin passions for guns and kayaks? answer
How come most of the world's cultures enjoy eating goat, but Americans don't? answer

Online Favorites

Special Issues

Photo Galleries

From Away.com

Page:

Out There
The Worm and I (continued)

THE WORM FINALLY went away, after living inside me for five weeks. As soon as I felt the effects of the thiabendazole, I knew its run was over. By this time, all the novelty had worn off, and I was eager to see my ankle return to normal size.

Six months later, though, people still ask me, "What happened to the worm? Do you still have it?" And when I say no, some of them say, "Are you sure?"

In fact, I'm not.

Sometimes I feel a little tingle in my ankle and reach down to see if it's what I think it is. Sometimes, if I'm running low on caffeine or if things look fuzzy through my smudged glasses, a tremor passes through me, and I have visions of a surgeon holding up an eyeball, calling out to the interns, "Look at this!"

"Would you feel a worm migrating through your body?" I asked Cahill during an anxiety-induced follow-up visit.

"I don't think so," he chuckled. For a second he reconsidered. "Well, you might." Then he thought about it again and said, "No, it's definitely too small."

Not long after, I called Peter Hotez on my cell phone as I was driving on I-684 in New York. He happened to be meeting with—of all people—Adan Rios, Panama's ambassador to the U.S. for health and technology, and he put me on a speakerphone so we could all talk. I pulled into a rest area.

"Where did you get your worm?" the ambassador asked. I told him my best guess: a fancy resort on the Pacific coast, where I'd gone barefoot on the beach.

"Oh, I know that place," he said. "Excellent fishing there. Quite beautiful."

"What can I help you with?" Hotez broke in. When I told him about my fears, he didn't sound amused. "You know," he said, "there's a condition called worm psychosis."

"Really?" I rolled up my car window to hear him better.

"Yes," he continued. "People think they're infested with worms. In fact, they think their bodies are literally overflowing with them."

"And are they?" I asked, starting to get his point. "No. It's all in their head."

"Have you ever met these people?"

"Well, there aren't many scientists out there who study worms, so I actually have worm groupies, people I correspond with, who e-mail me all the time. The interesting thing is, they're not delusional in any other way. It's just the worms. Sometimes they send me their worms, or what they think are their worms."

"And what are they?"

"Nothing. Pieces of lint in a jar. It's fascinating."

I thanked Hotez, though at that moment I didn't really feel thankful. The worm's physical presence was gone—I truly believed that. But the creepy feeling—that sense of being inhabited—would always be with me. The worm was dead. Long live the worm.

Page: