I’m deep in agony, an itchy bubbling hell, my skin, a relief map of fluid-filled terrain. The temptation to itch is constant. Staring at my monitor, my guard goes down, the absent scratching begins. Coming to, I immediately cease and survey the damage. It’s a scene worthy of a George A. Romero film. In fact, I feel like Jordy Verrill from Creepshow (1982).
I manage to get an appointment with a Dermatologist, who, with his perfunctory appraisal, made me think his only skill was writing prescriptions. I mean the entire meeting was less than two minutes, “Oh that looks like poison ivy.” He said this while nearly walking backwards, right out of the examination room.
“Hey Doc, aren’t there some kind of vitamins I can take, some kind of regimen?”
He took a step forward, “I’ll get you some samples.” Gone.
I left with a steroid-based salve prescription and a handful of 85+ sunscreen samples (I’m so fair, I’m nearly translucent).
Driving home, I realize the eruptions are so pervasive, and in the worst places—in between fingers, the crook of the arm, areas in near constant motion. Well, there are worst places, but my skin hasn’t given up that territory, yet. This is what I get for toiling in the yard and failing to heed “leaves of three, let it be.”