June 15, 2006
Itch you just can't scratch
For the first time in my life, I know the agony of prickly poison ivy.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

All summer long the ant slaved away, while his friend, the grasshopper, played and played. But when summer turned to fall and fall to winter, the grasshopper had nothing; the ant, however, had poison ivy.

That is a variation of a variation by Woody Allen, an ode to mortality and the brutal, spring youth of the poisonous, indigenous leaves I encountered.

Scratching at my red and inflamed wrists, which weren't properly covered while weeding, I may have spoken too soon when cursing my discontent for winter.

I now carry four varieties of topical histamine-blocking analgesics at all times.

On a friend's suggestion, I rotated sessions of soaking my arms in bleach-filled water at the kitchen sink.

As I hovered over the basin, my boyfriend said I looked really cool. The problem is I thought I was invincible.

Growing up in Indiana, camping, hiking and romping through almost every state forest, I never fell "babe in the woods" to the pretty little three-leaved monster.

Until now, I wore "never did drugs" and "never had poison ivy" as badges of honor.

Ripping the vines from the side of my boyfriend's house and tearing them root by root from the ground, I scoffed at threats from his experienced knowledge warning "beware the ivy."

I was on a mission; I now have one badge of honor left.

The other night, I scratched my arm so violently that it looked like a small sea creature had burrowed beneath my skin.

The scratching feels so good, but an hour later the oil spreads to my elbow, or perhaps the back of my short-shorted leg.

Suddenly, with every itch comes a degree of worry, and I constantly wash my hands like an OCD sufferer.
I think of alternative misfortunes I might enjoy more: seasickness; a poke in the eye with a sharp stick; Turkish prison. I'm maddened by the prickling sensation.

I've become sympathetic to King George: he wasn't roaming the palace grounds with porphyria -- he obviously had poison ivy!

I wake up every hour on the hour engaged in a disoriented scratching pose; Mother Nature, I want my old skin back!

Just today, after three weeks of scratching, I visited my family physician. I opted for Cortizone pills instead of a shot, the lesser of evils.

I'm typing, and waiting for the itch to vanish. But first, I relapse and scratch.

Mmm, so good.

Through this I've learned one more valuable life lesson: next time call a lawn service.