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To the Editor: Nowadays, I manage to avoid becoming involved with too
many cases of delusional parasitosis, but a few years ago almost every
week there would be enquiries from distressed individuals being
eaten alive from the inside or outside by squirming "bugs" of bizarre
shapes and colours. During one particularly bad stretch, a gentleman
living on a Moreton Bay island phoned for advice, and my heart sank as he
described tiny parasites emerging from the pores on his face and
crawling through his beard, causing itching that kept him awake at
night. I embarked on my usual spiel: "Have you seen your local doctor
about this?", and "Has a specimen been sent to the path lab?", but he
didn't trust doctors, hadn't been to one for years and didn't want to
feel stupid if nothing was found. So, when he offered to send specimens
I could hardly refuse.
Four days later, a small, grubby envelope addressed in a spidery scrawl appeared in my pigeonhole. Its contents were clumps of curly hairs sprinkled with small particles that looked more suspicious than the usual screwed-up bits of lint, skin and clot. Examination under the stereomicroscope showed that they were clearly pubic lice (Pthirus pubis, as originally designated from the Greek phtheir, for louse, by Linnaeus; his inadvertent omission of the first "h" is often corrected, as in "phthiriasis") (picture at top). This was a great relief, as I was clearly dealing with a rational human being. Unexpectedly, my phone call was answered by his wife: "So, what did you find in my husband's beard, doc?". "Well, er, there were things, but nothing serious. I'd rather talk to him directly, as it is personal." "Oh, that's alright, we share everything -- no secrets here!" Her husband had gone to the mainland for several days, and had warned her to expect my call. So I enquired about their relationship. "We've been married over 50 years -- he's 75, you know! What's the problem? Are you trying to hide something? Does he have to go into hospital?" Somewhat disarmed, I tried to enquire discreetly if she had experienced any suspicious symptoms and, when I finally divulged my finding, she burst out laughing. "The old codger! There's been no hanky-panky for years; he's beyond that, and we sleep in separate beds. But I'll get him to call you when he comes home -- I'm sure he's got a good excuse!" And he did. He explained that he ran a business in northern Fiji, to which he returned regularly, and where he tried to support the local community as much as possible; this included having his beard trimmed by the local barber, whose standards of hygiene were worrisome (our man had been waiting for years "to pick something up" from scissors and combs which were never cleaned between clients). As for treatment, he was quite happy to remove his beard, which provided radical therapy. Paul Prociv
©MJA 2000
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