Today brings Part 2 of the poison-ivy saga that has recently eclipsed global pandemic as the curse of my days.
Part 1 described how I encountered poison ivy, or perhaps poison sumac, and the resulting misery.
Thank you, blessed readers. You shared tips about hydrocortisone and calamine lotion, bleaching my clothing and more.
“I care,” Sarah Hudson Pierce emailed from Mooringsport, Louisiana, one of several expressions of sympathy.
John Settle of Shreveport, Louisiana, then found his own poison ivy curse – and sent a photo. Ick! Entirely in character, he obliquely blamed me.
I’ll spare y’all the gratuitously gross descriptions of my multi-week affliction. Except for this: I developed a rash over most of me – red and itchy and horrid.
“You should see a doctor,” my wife said.
“Nah,” I replied. “It’ll work itself out.”
“You should see a doctor,” my older daughter said.
“No! Waste of money. It’ll clear up.”
“Hey, you idiot!” my younger daughter said. “See a doctor.”
The doctor prescribed a steroid. Poison ivy conquered the idiot, but the steroid is master of all.
Signed,
The Idiot.
