I'm Not Allergic

I’m Not Allergic

           

            “Be careful! You know what that is.” Mom took a step back and pointed to some prolific vines in my overgrown flower bed.

            “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not allergic. It’s never bothered me at all.”

            “Well, I break out just walking by. I have a terrible reaction. You can’t imagine how awful. You should wear gloves when you work around it, just to be safe.”

            We continued our tour of the neglected yard, listing everything I needed to get accomplished. We said our goodbyes. I waved as she pulled out of the driveway, then grabbed my clippers and hoe.

            Before long, I could feel sweat tracing down my back and torso. I hummed tunelessly as I snipped, clipped, pulled and dragged. I was as out of shape as these flower beds, so I knew this was going to be a long process. But I was determined to get at least the first bed cleared out before collapsing for the day. Sweat poured down my face as I carried the last armload of plant debris over to the designated burn pile.

            Hands on my hips, I surveyed my afternoon’s work. Definitely a good start, but those other beds would have to wait. It was 95 degrees, and I was discovering aches in new places. Shower, here I come!

            I definitely felt better after a good head-to-toe scrubbing. As I relaxed in front of the evening news, I absently scratched my arm. Four tiny red bumps burned and itched on my right forearm. I dabbed some Cortaid cream on them, and quickly forgot them. For a little while!

            I woke up scratching my side and stomach. When I staggered to the bathroom and turned on the light, angry bumps and red welts streaked my torso. Yikes! What in the world?

            I spread the cortisone cream over the burning skin, and returned to bed. Before I could doze off, I discovered other places that itched as well. I took a Benadryl pill, smeared more cream, and went back to bed. I finally slept, but not very well.

            The morning light revealed more bumps. Some were tiny and in orderly lines. Others were bright red, and followed the curved parallel lines of fingernail scratches. Some climbed my neck in raised welts. They itched!

I took a cold wet cloth and wiped off the dried cream. And then I wiped some more, because wiping almost felt like scratching, which I knew I wasn’t supposed to do. But they itched! And I wanted to scratch and claw until they stopped itching. Except they didn’t stop itching. Scratching made them burn, but underneath the burn was the driving itch that wouldn’t go away. I felt skin tearing, but still I scratched. This must be what insanity feels like!

I dug into the junk closet/medicine cabinet until I came up with a half-full bottle of calamine lotion that was probably as old as my youngest child. I used cotton balls dipped in the pink liquid to paint my neck, side, arm, and stomach. I stood in front of a small fan to let the lotion dry before selecting my baggiest acceptable work clothes.

As I began dressing, I noticed that some of the pink war paint fell just under the bottom elastic band of my brassiere. As a full-figured gal, the bra is not an option, it is mandatory standard equipment. I adjusted as best I could, finished dressing, and tucked my Cortaid cream into my purse in case of emergency.

“Ugh! I hate poison ivy!” Jill, a co-worker sympathized when she caught me smearing the anti-itch cream on my neck in the ladies’ room.

“Is that what this is? I’ve never had it before. I’m not allergic.”

“Yeah, well, it’s good thing you’re not.” She left chuckling, which I found extremely rude.

The day crawled by, with periods of relative calm interrupted by bouts of fierce itching, which led to manic, hysterical scratching, usually in the privacy of a locked stall in the not-too-private ladies’ room. The few pink-tinted bumps under the elastic band had mounted an offensive which stormed the entire perimeter of the band and surged upward. I squeezed the last precious drop of cortisone cream from the mangled tube and slathered it as far as it would go.

            I googled poison ivy and rashes, and saw way more than I ever wanted to. I skimmed to treatments and found cortisone cream, calamine, Benadryl cream, and some prescription stuff specifically for poison ivy. Is that really what I have? I’m not allergic.

            Since I’d emptied my tube of anti-itch cream, I ran in the local Dollar General for more on the way home from work. I found it on the shelf with Calamine, Benadryl cream, and some sort of hybrid Caladryl, which apparently takes the best properties of each of the others and combines them for your slathering convenience. Plus, it comes in a clear gel, which sounded good to me. I selected one of each, just to cover all my bases.

In the car, I ripped open a bottle and covered my hand with the cooling gel, rubbing it between the fingers where invisible locusts were stinging. Driving home with my purchases, I discovered more itchy bumps on the back of my ear. Holy cow! Your ear hurts when you scratch it really hard!

As soon as I got home from work I undressed and ran myself a warm bath with baking soda. I’d read somewhere that the soda helped with something or other, and it sounded like it would be soothing. Before I crawled in, I allowed myself to scratch wantonly for just a few seconds, because everything itched! I know that’s wrong, but it felt both wonderful and intensely painful at the same time. I never claimed to be perfect.

The bath seemed to help a little, but I caught myself drying off a little too thoroughly in some areas. The towel helped ease the itch just a little. Another Benadryl, then more smearing followed, and was repeated throughout the night.

            Daylight found me in misery. My mirror made me think of a scene from Night of the Living Dead. I quickly looked away, rubbing more gel onto my torso and up my throat. My brain had seized on the concept of cross-contamination, so I gathered every towel, wash cloth and article of clothing that had touched me in the last two days. I dumped them all into the washer in a giant load, and washed in extra hot water with extra soap and an extra rinse. Then I dried them on HOT for two cycles. All before breakfast, which was a third cup of caffeine. Then I tackled the sheets, pillows and quilt from my bed. Surely hot water would kill this demon.

            As the rash continued to spread and the itch demanded attention, I became certain I was dealing with some horrible medical condition. Surely nothing as common as poison ivy could be so traumatic. I reapplied a layer of pink lotion, dressed as comfortably as was decent, and drove myself to the walk-in clinic. The perky little girl at the window asked what my problem was.

            “I’m broke out over half my body in this horrible rash, and I’m miserable.”

            “Yes, poison ivy is common this time of year. Take a seat.”

            “I think this is something else. I’m not allergic to poison ivy.”

            “Okay. The Doctor will be with you shortly.”

            A few minutes later, the nurse took me in a cold room and checked my vitals. She looked at my neck and hands.

            “When did you get into the poison ivy?”

            “Well, I worked in the yard Wednesday. But are you sure that’s what this is? I mean, I’m not allergic to it.”

            “I’d say you are now. The doctor will be in shortly.”

            Doctor Martin swooped in, glanced at my hand, neck and ribs, then scribbled something on her pad. “I can see you’ve been using calamine. Have you tried cortisone cream?”

            I pulled the assorted tubes and bottles from my purse. “Nothing helps for more than a little while. In the meantime, it’s spreading. It’s on my ears and in my hair. This is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. What is it?”

            “It’s poison ivy, poison sumac, poison oak, one of those. Have you never had it before?”

            “No. I’m fifty years old, and I’ve always worked in the yard, hiked in the woods, fished, rode horses. I’ve seen it, or course. I just always thought I wasn’t allergic.”

            “Well, apparently you are now. You’ll want to avoid it in the future. We’ll give you a shot today, and it will stop the spread. Keep using the over-the-counter stuff as long as you need it. The symptoms should start improving soon.”

            I pray she’s right. When it’s not itching, it’s burning and aching, especially where skin touches fabric or other skin. I’m not leaving the house until this is better. Don’t come checking on me. I’ve changed into my bathrobe until further notice.