I’m driving to Tijuana to get purposely infected with hookworms. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Of all the treatments I’ve tried for Crohn’s, this has to be the most bizarre. 10 wriggly little worms. The actual larvae. Burrowing into my skin!
It better work.
The drive down is uneventful save for the relentless boredom of highway 5. We finally make it to my sister’s house after dark. I am so tired. Wonder if I’ll find the bathroom in my sleep.
Yet I feel oddly giddy. Drunk on the ridiculousness of what I’m doing. Tomorrow I’m driving to Mexico to get hookworms! Just another day.
The phone rings, and it is my father. I tell him I’m going to a clinic connected to UCSD, and am getting an experimental drug that is a natural immunosuppressive.
“You’re not going to some quack in Tijuana, are you?”
“No, Dad.”
“Because there’s all sorts of charlatans down there.”
“I know, Dad.”
“You’re staying at a hotel?”
“Yeah, overnight in San Diego.”
“You’re not going to some Mexican hotel, are you?”
“No, Dad.”
“Because you can catch anything down there. How much is this costing you?”
“Oh, a few thousand dollars.” He whistles. “They’re not getting you hooked on some radical therapy are they?” I almost choke on my homemade SCD yogurt.
“No, Dad.” I lie and reassure him, as I sit here, afraid.
What the hell am I doing?
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