You know, I used to think I had a fairly decent tolerance for physical pain. Twelve years as a ballet dancer netted me some pretty gruesome blisters, sore muscles, and even a torn ligament. Then there was my running phase. Training for a 15K race, numerous half-marathons, and a full marathon came with more than just a few basic aches and pains. And then there was that knee surgery. The whole thing wouldn't have been so bad, really, if it hadn't turned out that I was allergic to the codeine they gave me for pain during recovery. After about 16 hours of excessive vomiting, the doctor decided codeine probably wasn't for me and recommended over-the-counter pain relievers instead. Needless to say, run-of-the-mill analgesics cowered at the thought of facing such daunting pain and, despite gallant efforts, didn't do a darn thing to ease the so-called "discomfort" of my recently cut-apart-and-sewed-back-together knee.
And then there were the burns. As a Starbucks barista I once managed to empty an entire pitcher of 170-degree steamed milk onto my upper thigh (the best part was the way the milk-saturated fabric of my pants clung unmercifully to the bare skin beneath, searing it for what felt like a solid five minute before I managed to yank them off). And then there was the time when I unknowingly super-heated a bowl of soup in the microwave. After the timer dinged, I opened the microwave door and, as I was pulling out the plastic bowl, I stuck a spoon into the soup to stir it. The spoon released the super-heated energy of the soup sending it flying outwards like a liquid shock wave. It just so happened that my unsuspecting left hand was the first thing that shock wave of soup hit, and after washing all the burning liquid off, my skin begin blistering almost immediately.
So, in my 30 years of life on this planet, I've encountered - and overcome - a good deal of very painful experiences. But, I have to say that none of those even comes close to comparing with the excruciating agony that poison ivy has wrecked upon me in the past few days.
It all started innocently enough. During a spell of really beautiful spring-like weather, I decided it was time to tame the Wasteland, the largely uncharted region of our backyard that lies inconspicuously out of sight - and usually out of mind - behind the garage.
In the time since Luke had the garage built, I had made previous attempts at clearing out the Wasteland (which involves yanking out the yards and yards of English ivy, a species that seems to be absolutely tireless in its steadfast mission to give kudzu a run for its money as the world's most annoying invasive plant), one of which was fairly successful...for about one summer.
This time, though, I was truly determined to make my efforts pay off. You see, this time, I had a dream, a motivating vision, driving me. I wanted to create my own little Secret Garden back behind the garage. I envisioned a space beneath the venerable oak trees where I could sit quietly in an old wooden Adirondack chair and watch the birds. I would bring out a little side table for glasses of lemonade, wine, or cold beer. I would bring my notebook out there and write for hours, inspired by the birdsong and squirrel chatter. It would be my very own little slice of nature, right there in the middle of my big-city backyard. Oh, it was going to be wonderful!
So, outfitted with work gloves and my trusty Braves cap (signed by long-time announcer Pete van Wieren) and armed with long-handled loppers, garden clippers, compost bags, and an embarrassingly romantic vision of creating Eden in my own backyard, I set out to take the Wasteland by storm.
For three days I hacked and pulled and tugged and chopped my way through decades of unfettered undergrowth and domestic plants gone wild. A rusty chain link fence separated the back line of our property from the neighbor's on the next street over. At some point, someone on our side of the fence had planted vines at evenly spaced intervals along the fence line, in, what I imagine, was a well-intentioned effort to cover the stark metal with tender green tendrils and delicate - perhaps even pleasantly scented - flowers. It was a great idea. Except that over the years, the vines had not been tended, and they were now growing very determinedly into the nearby trees, strangling the new growth of young saplings and intercepting vital nutrients from the leaves of the mature trees. The vines had also become so top-heavy that they were actually pulling the fence over in several places. Time to go!
There were also vines - a different species - growing into the trees from the ground. These offenders were mostly more of the English ivy, creeping from runners on the ground right up the trunks of the trees. Apparently, however, there was also some poison ivy and perhaps even some poison oak joining the fun as well. And that's where things start to get messy.
I severed the vines near their roots at the base of the tree, then, in careful accordance with instructions I'd read on several tree care websites, I removed three-foot long sections of the vines, carefully detaching their funny little aerial roots from the bark in order to cause minimal stress to the tree that had become the vines' host. Now, I have to confess that I did, at times, deviate from the tree care instructions and give in to the overwhelming urge to just rip those suckers off the tree as far up the trunk as I could. Boy, was that satisfying! Then, in further indulgence of my obsessive-compulsive side (which, by the way, LOVES projects like this!), I brought out the step ladder so I could continue removing every last stubborn remnant of ivy from as high up on the tree as I could physically reach.
I flung those bits of ivy down to the ground with more than a just a bit of braggadocio. Ha, take that, you ivy. This is MY yard. I make the rules about what grows where around here, and YOU AREN'T WANTED. Ha!
Then, after getting as much as I could off the tree trunks, I set to chopping up the more gangly strips into manageable pieces that could be easily stuffed into the yard waste bags. Chop, chop, chop. Listen to the birds. Feel the sun on my face. Oh, it was glorious to be outside after months of winter. There's the neighbor - "Hi, neighbor! ... Yep, I'm just going to town on these vines. ... No, no, I won't work too hard. ... What's that? ... Yeah, I know I'm crazy. ... Okay, will do. ... Yep, same to you!"
And that's pretty much how it went for the next three days. Rip out the vines, yank up the roots, chop the big pieces down, and stuff it all into the compost bags.
On Friday I noticed some scrapes on my forearm. Ah, the first war wounds of the season, I thought proudly.
Saturday dawned cold and blustery...and slightly itchy. I studied the scrapes on my forearm. They were tiny, really, but they did itch a little, and one of them was starting to bubble up like a blister. Maybe it was poison ivy? Lukas headed out to the drugstore for calamine lotion.
I called my Dad to wish him a happy birthday and to compare notes on poison ivy rashes. He had suffered an outbreak of historical proportions several years back, and thereafter was crowned the guru of all things itchy and rashy. It's only four little spots, I told him sheepishly. But, they really itch!
He recommended the topical anti-itch cream that had worked best for him - Ivarest - and said if it got super bad to go to the doctor to get a shot. Really, I said, it's only four spots. Not a big deal. Happy birthday!
Lukas returned with the calamine lotion, and I proceeded to drench my little spots in soothing, chalky pink relief. I had a few beers that evening at dinner and forgot all about my affliction.
The next day the spots seemed unchanged. Hey, this poison ivy business isn't so bad, I thought. Not nearly as bad as the headache I had from the beer the night before. I dabbed on some more calamine lotion just for good measure and went about trying to ease my hangover.
Monday morning I had a doctor's appointment. Nothing related to the poison ivy - this appointment had been made months ago. I was having my first physical in, oh, probably ten years. The doc was very thorough, and did notice the poison ivy bumps. It's not a big deal, I told her. In fact, I think they're mostly healed. She took a look and didn't seem worried. I got into some myself over the weekend, she said. I left the office feeling confident I'd be itch-free in no time.
That evening I noticed that the spots looked a little "angry" and were itching a bit more persistently. I smothered them in calamine and tried to ignore them.
The next day I awoke to an onslaught. It was the most painful, intense, burning, itching craziness I've ever experienced. I mean, REALLY. I actually felt nauseous from the itching. I jumped in the shower thinking the warm running water would soothe the pain. Wow, bad idea! It felt like fire was searing across my flesh. Holy cow.
The "four little spots" on my arm had morphed into puffy, swollen, growling welts. There were blisters, too. I tried popping one to see if it made it feel better. No such luck. It just got angrier and more swollen. And then it began oozing.
I scrambled for the calamine, but it did nothing. Nothing! Like an umbrella in a hurricane.
I scoured the Internet in desperation. What will take away this pain, what will take away this pain, what will take away this pain... In one online forum I stumbled upon, a woman suggested “dabbing a Clorox bleach soaked Q-tip onto the spots. This will help take away the itchies.” I sat back in horror, not sure which repulsed me more, the idea of putting bleach on open wounds or the fact that the woman had referred to what I could only describe as Itch-a-saurus Rex as “the itchies.” Good Lord, who are these people, I thought.
I kept searching and found some suggestions for topical creams that seemed to come from sufficiently sound scientific websites…like Wikipedia (see, I told you I was desperate!). I sped off to the drugstore.
Fifty dollars later I arrived back home with not one but two creams to try: Zanfel and Ivarest. The first - the one that set me back a whopping $40 - was recommended as the strongest and most effective treatment for poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac. According to the package, it worked best if used immediately after exposure. However, it went on, it could also help relieve itching and prohibit future outbreaks even if used after the rash had already appeared. Well, let's hope so!
Zanfel is applied as a "wash," meaning you wet the affected skin, squeeze out the appropriate amount of cream (no less than one-and-a-half inches, admonish the very sternly worded directions - and a handy ruler is printed right on the back of the tube!), rub it around in your palms (for a minimum of 15 seconds) to activate the ingredients, and then work it into the rash sites, scrubbing for - you guessed it - no less than 30 seconds. (I'm considering writing the company to suggest they include a mini-stopwatch in addition to the handy ruler.)
Hmmm, still itching. I pulled out the package insert and unfurled it. It was actually nowhere near as convoluted and mind-numbing as most package inserts. In fact, the print was large enough to read and there were color charts. I started skimming and then began reading with interest.
Turns out that "moderate to severe cases" of poison ivy may require several Zanfel washes before relief is realized. And, in some cases, its effectiveness is rendered moot by either the severity of the infection or the length of time that has passed since exposure...or both. Well, I didn't think I had a "severe" case, but I did figure it had been at least 36 hours since my last possible exposure, so perhaps that had allowed too much time for the insidious irritant to work its way into my skin.
On to Cream #2: Ivarest. This is the stuff Pop, the Poison Ivy Guru, had recommended as being the absolute best over-the-counter itch remedy. I read the instructions (which weren't nearly as pointed - or interesting – as Zanfel's ) and applied the cream generously. It felt cool and nice going on, and within a minute the intensity of the itching had abated substantially. Hallalujah, praise Allah, thank the Lord baby Jesus, forever and ever amen!
Okay, so maybe this isn't so bad. If I re-apply the Ivarest every six to eight hours for the next couple of days, I should be fine. I settled down in front of my computer to get some work done. That was around noon.
By three o'clock the fiery itching had returned with a vengeance. And, oh, hell, was it spreading?! Yes, it seemed to be spreading.
Back to the Internet. This time I really did check the scientific sites. What makes poison ivy spread? Was I re-infecting myself somehow? How does one stop it? Even worse, was I spreading it to everything I touched?
My fears were calmed somewhat by what I read:
Number 1: The rash resulting from poison ivy exposure can rarely be spread to another person through contact. By the time the rash has emerged, the poison ivy oil – urushiol, a.k.a. Devil Oil - has become fully bonded to the affected person’s skin cells and won't be transferred to another person or object through physical contact.
Number 2: Poison ivy can't be "spread" from one part of the body to another (for the same reason that it can't be transferred to someone else through touching). What people commonly mistake for the "spreading" of the rash is actually just a delayed reaction to the original poison ivy exposure. The rash first appears in places where the skin is thin (wrists and chest, for example) and/or where the urushiol had the most intense contact (for example, a piece of poison ivy wedged between one's wrist and one's work glove that goes undetected for, oh, say, two hours). Then, over time, the rash shows up in areas of less intense exposure and/or thicker skin. So, it's not really "spreading," it's just showing up at a slower pace and/or in different parts of the body.
Number 3: The urushiol can be removed from objects like clothing, shoes, and work tools with a thorough washing with regular soap and water. (Apply rubbing alcohol to tools after washing to ensure they don’t rust.)
This was all comforting news. But, of course, there was also a good dose of disconcerting news, too:
Number 1: Urushiol can remain viable (read: contagious) on inanimate objects for up to five years. This means if you don't wash everything that was contaminated – everything you touched after touching the poison ivy - you could potentially re-infect yourself for years to come. (Potentially interesting sidebar here: My obsessive-compulsive side leapt in joy to hear this news. Cleaning! And LOTS of it! Bedding, door knobs, chair seats, couch cushions, sink faucets…the list went on and on.)
Number 2: Urushiol doesn't cause an allergic reaction in animals (some, like certain birds, even make a delicious meal of the berries of poison ivy and poison oak), but when it gets on a critter's fur, it can be transmitted to humans. This is especially common in indoor/outdoor pets like cats and dogs.
Number 3: If new skin eruptions continue to appear four or five days after the original exposure, and you're sure you're not re-infecting yourself inadvertently by touching something that hadn’t been thoroughly cleansed of the poison ivy oil, it most likely signals that the infection has become systemic. This basically means that the poison ivy has gotten into your bloodstream and now has free reign throughout your body. Itchy spots will start showing up in places that were not originally exposed (and that do not necessarily lend themselves to convenient Ivarest application).
Number 4: The only way to treat systemic poison ivy is through prescription drugs. And it usually takes a week to ten days of treatment for full effectiveness.
Number 5: Regardless of whether the infection is systemic or localized, persistent itching, disgusting oozing, and increasingly grouchy, swollen, red welts at the infection sites will be on the agenda for many days, sometimes up to two weeks.
Number 6: Poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac plants tend to defy eradication. Burning it – whether knowingly or unknowingly – is a very bad idea. Breathing in the smoke of burning poison ivy sends the urushiol directly into your lungs, infecting your nasal passages, mouth, and throat along the way. In some online forums I read, people reported using the very tool of the Devil - Round-Up – on the plants with only limited success. (And one woman noted that her indoor/outdoor cat had to be hospitalized for three days after grazing on grass that had been sprayed with Round-Up.) It seems the best way to eliminate the stuff is to remove the plant, roots and all, and that, of course, involves putting yourself directly back in harm’s way.
(Another potentially interesting sidebar here: for the brave ones willing to tackle this job, it’s worth it to invest in a Tyvek suit and vinyl – NOT rubber – gloves that reach to your elbows. Also, wear safety glasses and a dust mask. Discard the protective gear after use and make sure to wash your footwear and eye protection thoroughly with soap and water. The Tyvek suits aren’t as expensive as one might think. I found some on www.rosemania.com.)
During this poison ivy information quest I also stumbled upon a site that features, among other very useful things, a Rash Hall of Fame gallery. You actually have to click on a button indicating that you’ve read and understand the liability waiver before you can view the pictures. Awesome!
Once into the gallery, you are asked to choose how you’d like to view the pictures: ease into it with the least gory ones first or skip the kiddie stuff and go straight to the “grandmother of all rashes.” Of course I chose the latter. And I wasn’t disappointed. Wow, did that guy’s rash look BAD.
About this time I realized that my own rash was impatiently screaming at me for attention, so I trudged to the bathroom to commence the wash-pat dry-apply Ivarest routine that was rapidly becoming an ordinary part of my daily life. Sigh.
*****
New day. New rash developments. The swelling has definitely increased, and the itching and burning are almost unbearable. New spots are cropping up all over my arms, on my neck, on my abdomen, on my shin, and, oh, crap, there are even some on my FACE. Nooooooo…
I consider going to the doctor. Yes, I’ll definitely call the doctor. I pick up the phone, then it put it down. But, is this really THAT bad? Maybe it’s just a run-of-the-mill case of poison ivy that will clear up on its own in a matter of days, and I’m being a colossal baby about it.
I waiver back and forth for about an hour. Then Lukas comes in and makes the decision for me. Go to the doctor – TODAY!
My three o’clock appointment time can’t come soon enough. I’m literally climbing the walls with itch-induced derangement. I know that scratching increased the chance of infection, but, DAMN, it would feel so good to scratch the be-jesus out of these welts. I rub on one spot lightly through my shirt sleeve. It feels better for exactly (or should I say, “no less than”) three seconds. And then the spots next to it start up, so I ever so gently rub them a little through my sleeve. After a minute I rool up my sleeve to see if I’ve done any damage. Ew! Lots of oozing and puffiness. Great, now I’ve probably set myself up for gangrene, too. Awesome.
By 2:30 I can’t stand it anymore so I head out to the doctor, even though it only takes five minutes to get there and my appointment isn’t until three. I park as close to the office as I can, but the facility is located within a very busy shopping center and I don’t get nearly as close to the front door as I’d like. I exit my car, and take a circuitous route through the vast parking lot, trying my best to avoid any face-to-face contact with other humans. I’m literally covered in pinkish-tan Ivarest lotion, even on my chin, lips, and nose. Yes, sir, I am lookin’ good!
I finally make it into the doctor’s office and the really nice woman at the front desk tries her very best not to stare too blatantly as I sign in. She assures me they’ll be ready for me shortly. I take a seat and try to lose myself in a Shape magazine. Not exactly a literary escape.
After what seems like an hour, the nurse calls me back. He, too, is very cordial, and since he’s a nurse, he unabashedly takes stock of my condition. I find that the outright examination is far easier to handle than the cloaked gawking of passersby.
“Wow,” he says after a minute. “You really got into it, huh?”
He takes my temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate, asks a few more questions, and then leaves saying the doctor will be in “shortly.” I know that “shortly” means something vastly different to a non-poison ivy-infected person, so I prepare myself for another hour of waiting.
The doctor finally comes in. He’s got his laptop in hand (gone are the days of the doctor’s clipboard, apparently), and he takes a seat opposite me after introducing himself and shaking my hand (without even grimacing, I should point out). His demeanor is relaxed, even jovial, and his manner of speaking is that of the sexually ambiguous, 30-something Midtown dweller that I’ve come to associate with Atlanta men. It puts me at ease, though, and I find myself smiling and joking – something I haven’t done since The Terrible Itching of 2008 started.
He spends a good amount of time going over my symptoms, and when he decided upon a course of action, he is very thorough in explaining to me which drugs he’s going to prescribe and why and how they may effect me. On his way out, he lays his hand reassuringly on my shoulder. I can feel myself getting better already.
Then the nurse comes back in, needle in hand. It’s time for my steroid shot. I usually really dislike shots, but I have to say, this time that needle couldn’t get in me fast enough.
“This goes in your cheek,” the nurse says. “Whichever side you want, it doesn’t matter.”
I’m momentarily taken aback. In my cheek?! Then I realize he must mean my BUTT cheek. Okay, right. I slide off the examining table and undo my pants, figuring he’ll stop me immediately if he really meant my face cheek.
The shot goes in, my pants are back on, and he tells me to hang around for another ten minutes to make sure I’m not going to have an allergic reaction to the shot. I try to do some deep breathing exercises and focus on something other than the itching and the fact that I just dropped my pants and exposed my big white butt cheek to a perfectly nice young black nurse.
Soon there’s a knock on the door and said nurse pokes his head in.
“How you doing in here?” He asks. He looks me straight in the eye, a good sign, I figure, that at least his retinas haven’t been irreparably damaged by the exposure to my butt cheek.
“So far, so good,” I tell him.
He smiles and opens the door all the way. “Guess you can get on out of here, then,” he says. He hands me my paperwork and prescription forms. “Take care, and call us if you need anything.”
I skee-daddle on out of there, make a bee-line for my car, and hit the road. I briefly consider going straight home and cajoling Lukas into going to the pharmacy to fill my prescriptions for me. But, the pharmacy is actually between the doctor’s office and our house, and I just couldn’t justify driving right by without stopping in. Besides, I’d already sent Lukas on enough poison ivy-related errands over the past week. I’d just suck it up and go in, splotchy face and all.
My heart sinks when I step up to the pharmacy counter and see that the Mean Lady is working today. I almost turn around and leave, but then I remember that Lukas likes her even less than I do, and I really need my medicine NOW, so I take a breath and wait my turn in line.
Without even glancing at me, she grabs my prescription forms and scams them grumpily.
“Well,” she says with a huff. “We don’t have this. I don’t even know what this is. No, we don’t carry this. I mean, I guess I could order it for you, but it won’t ready until at least tomorrow. Is this really that urgent?”
I stare in disbelief.
Then she looks up at me. Our eyes meet, and then her gaze travels to my neck, my chest, my arms.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Is this for poison ivy?”
I nod.
“Well, let me see. I’ll just call the doctor and see if we can substitute something else that have in stock. Hang on just a minute.”
Within ten minutes both my prescriptions are filled, and I’m regaled with tales of the Mean Pharmacy Lady’s personal encounters with poison ivy. She actually smiles at me as she hands me my pills. I walk to the cash register still somewhat dumbfounded, managing to nod in sympathy at the check out girl’s own story of poison ivy affliction. I sign for the prescription, take my receipt, and head for the door, ready to get home and start feeling better.
As I push the door open, I see someone on the other side waiting to come in. I hold the door for him, and as he’s passing I realize it’s a dear friend with whom I haven’t spoken in years.
Just keep going like you didn’t see him flashes across my mind, but I couldn’t. I stop and say hello, and we embrace and talk about poison ivy and his recent marriage and how work has been and all that. It’s really good to see him, and he honestly doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by my unusual appearance. Finally, the itch gets too unbearable, and I tell him I have to go. We exchange business cards and promise to keep in touch.
I get home, update Lukas on my condition, and begin popping pills. This one says it might cause drowsiness, this one excitability. I really didn’t care if they made me see purple monsters and hear the toaster talking, as long as they STOPPED THE ITCH.
Within two hours I was zonked out in my desk chair. I roused myself just long enough to drag upstairs to bed, and there I stayed for the next 14 hours. Guess the drowsiness pill won out.
But the best news is that by morning the swelling and itching had subsided significantly. Oh, thank goodness. I mean, really, THANK GOODNESS. It looked like I wouldn’t end up scratching myself into oblivion after all, and, even better, that the spots would stop erupting all over my body.
I’m still covered with goopy Ivarest cream, and the sores are still oozy and pestering, but I think I’ve finally gotten the upper hand on the Itch-a-saurus Rex. Someday maybe I'll be able to look back on all this and laugh... as I watch the birds and sip iced lemonade in my poison ivy-free Secret Garden.
This is what I'm accustomed to seeing when I look out the windows of the french doors onto the back deck.
