The Poison Ivy Story

From May 12th, 2002:
It turns out you really can blame almost anything you want on Mango.
You see, 48 hours after I realized I had Poison Ivy all over my face, my darling Lisa called me up to tell me that there are two foods that are most closely linked to PI (biologically) and can cause PI like symptoms in those who are highly allergic. Cashews, she said. And Mangos!
Course, it all started on Wednesday at Grapevine when I was riding my bike and came upon some runners (who do they think they are, hanging out on trails anyway?). I swerved to give them room, hooked a PI branch with my handlebar and watched it drag across my fingers and glove. I kept riding.
“Don’t wipe you face with your hand,” I thought. Over and over and over. Forgetting completely that the mind doesn’t do “don’t” at all and I was programming myself for disaster.
Thursday, I ironically told my friend Chad that I was really glad the “branch” I caught wasn’t Poison Ivy (I figured I’d dodged a bullet at that point because I didn’t have any signs on my hand yet).
Friday morning, I woke up with the rash on my cheek, under my nose, in my nose, devouring my lips, creeping down my chin and inching toward my eyes. I covered myself in Tea Tree Oil and went to work. I used a lot of lip balm. I did not itch.
Friday evening, I drove to Tyler for Mt. Biking and camping. By this time, it hurt to smile, talk or even move my face. Doggie kisses were being discouraged.
Lefty and Patty were already there, setting up camp and preparing to cook salmon. It was still light enough when I arrived for Patty to see my face. It was definitely getting worse. When everything was unpacked, we decided to wait for Dave before eating dinner. A nice Mango was cut open to tide us over.
Dave arrived at just after 10 p.m., having missed our attempt to light a fire with wet wood (no white gas this time) and the first round of La Reformador. Lefty sprung into action cooking us salmon, Dave got out a 100-foot extension cord and put a box fan on the fire. I played Natalie Merchant’s Tiger Lilly CD. Patty boiled pasta. The neighbors to our right came over bearing gifts from a birthday celebration: Strawberry and Mango sorbet.
Dave was brave enough to try two sips of the Tequila before he stated emphatically that he didn’t care if he was booted out of the tribe; he was mixing it with Mango Gatorade.
What remained of the night was spent laughing at the absurdity of using an electric box fan to keep the fire burning, enjoying the fact that we were “away” from the responsibilities of yards, kids, careers, concerns. It was 80 degrees and humid out. But the bugs were held at bay, the dogs at peace and the pain at a minimum.
Saturday morning was a different story. During an almost completely sleepless night my eyes swelled shut. My lips became open sores, seeping lymphatic fluid and feeling not unlike a severe second-degree burn. Patty was visibly worried by now, and I was feeling sorry for myself. I agreed to medical intervention. But first, coff-ay.
We decided that the park office would be able to point us in the direction of an urgent-care facility in Tyler. Breakfast was made, served, eaten, reheated and reserved. Dave got up late. “You poor thing,” was all he managed when he caught sight of me. In the pre-caffeine haze, it was the kindest thing he could have said. We left camp at around 9 a.m.
At the park office we obtained the phone number of an urgent-care clinic, its address, and a map of Tyler. We drove into town, promptly turned right at Loop 323 and realized that the address we were looking for was on the eastern side of town….a left turn would have been helpful. When we arrived at the “spot” it was vacant, replete with real estate sign in the window. Patty is all about asking directions and we follow them around several corners… right back where we were. Luckily we get better help the second place we stop and know we must keep going and look for a hospital.
The waiting room is packed. And I am really concerned now, because it could literally be hours to get the shot. But it turns out that every single one of them is waiting on one person. Whew. I am assigned a curtained area and given a nice clean white sheet and a “gown” to wear. The triage nurse says to take off my top and bra. Hmmmm? It’s on my face! But I am grateful for the air conditioning, the crispness of the sheet against my skin and the relative quiet. I nearly fall asleep.
The doctor takes one look at my face, sits down and starts writing the order for a shot. I also get a prescription for Prednezone and a suggestion that a topical might help with itching. Never mind that itching still doesn’t play into this at all because it hurts too fucking bad to touch.
I go back to my clean, crisp bed and my dreams of an air-conditioned camper until the nurse comes in and asks me which cheek? I point to the left side of my face: “That one.” I reply. He’s talking about my ass, of course and I remove my shorts, still wondering why my bra and t-shirt are in a wad on the counter. The needle is so fine, I can’t feel the shot at all. And I regretfully get dressed and leave the air-conditioned cleanliness of the hospital behind, Patty driving my rental car because it’s possible the steroids could affect me negatively. Yes; but we’ll talk about water retention later.
Dave and Lefty have not ridden. In fact, they haven’t moved from the chairs around the fire ring at all. But they are hungry. So we decide to have lunch and then everyone gets ready to ride and I head to the bathroom to take the longest shower of my life. Which I follow up with a very short nap.
Lefty comes riding back into camp with the worst look I have ever seen on his face: Rosebud has a crack. At first he thought it was just the paint, but now it’s getting bigger (and it’s on both sides of the frame – at a critical weld) and he can hear it when he’s climbing. We sit for a while and I think he’s going to cry. We change the subject. We think about it a bit. And then we do the math. The chances of a catastrophic failure are very slim. And even it one were to happen, the chances of his hurting himself badly are even slimmer. The frame is “gone” no matter what. So he might as well ride. And now he is feeling better.
The shot is working: it has effectively turned me into an emotional wreck (steroids are known to do this) and it takes every bit of my energy to control it. I am not sure what’s worse – the drive to stay as still as possible to avoid sweating into the open sores, or the drive to get the hell up and move around to keep from going nuts. I figure the dogs need some exercise so I agree to run Tyler around the camp a few times.
I use Dave’s bike.
It takes fewer than 30 strokes up the hill directly off our driveway for me to fall hopelessly and irrevocably in love with her. I am climbing in the big ring in sixth gear. With ease. I am so screwed.
As I am rounding the second corner it occurs to me that we have two black labs tied to trees in our camp and we’re less than 1000 meters from a lake. So I suggest we take the dogs for a walk and this happens right after Patty returns from a shower - with makeup done and hair blown dry.
Tyler and Neo swim quite naturally, although Neo is a lot faster in the water. Jenna has always hated water. But she hates not being a big dog even more. So in she jumps, squeaking like a skewered pig the whole time, climbing alternately on Tyler’s or Neo’s back for a ride back in. Pretty soon the people are all in the water, including Patty – you can always take another shower. The big dogs find lots of things to roll in. And lots of sticks to retrieve. Jenna decides Dave is the object of her desire. And she follows him. But since Dave was All-American in college, she’s not going to catch him. And she’s going to wear out. So Dave cradles the little wet creature in his arms and does a life-guard stroke all the way back to shore. Jenna squeaks the entire time.
And lest you think that she stops there, no. She decides she needs to retrieve, too. Reeds. Milfoil. Bark. Turtles. Tyler and Neo are more interested in hanging out with their people. The lake turns out to be the only place my face doesn’t hurt.
By 7 p.m. we are hungry and we head back in time for Hog and Pork Me Now’s arrival in camp. German Corn Dogs are on the agenda, and we make a group production out of skewering them, rolling them in batter, dumping them in the oil and taking their picture. They are yummy and to go with them we have onion rings, French fries, hush puppies and tequila.
Mustard burns in an open wound
Mango Gatorade really is the perfect thing to mix with Sauza gold.
Hog and Pork are good at keeping the fire going.
It is not acceptable to go to bed at 9 p.m. no matter how tired you are.
I make it to 10 o-clock before I pass out on the sleeping bag and hope my face won’t betray me again come morning.
When I wake, I can see. A marked improvement. The swelling is not as good as it had been when I went down, but it’s not as bad as the morning previous, either. Dave is up and making us pancakes. From scratch. With an electric grill. Coff-ay is served. Three pots of it. There is bacon and sausage and syrup and we full before half the batter is cooked.
It’s time for a decision. Sunday morning is so humid that breathing causes me to sweat. On that note, there is no reason not to ride. So I go ahead and dress appropriately, and the packing commences and just as we are done, Toni arrives. It takes a few more minutes to break camp because we discover that deer can be hand fed pineapple. Who knew?
I make it 3 miles with Tyler on trail before the burning is beyond what I can take and I head back to camp to find a shower. Lefty and Patty ride up soon after with Neo dragging his tongue and limping like crazy… he tried to stay with Lefty. He throws up. They are done for the day as well. Rosebud is not healed.
Toni must head back to Dallas to work. Hog and Pork are going to somebody’s house for dinner. Lefty wants barbeque. Dave is worried. Well you’d be worried, too, if the place was white washed, looked like a barn and called Bodacious BBQ. But they have grass and trees out back and we can tie up the dogs.
They have sweetened tea. They have a collection of very dusty salt and pepper shakers behind chicken wire. The difference between “here” and “to go” is that they don’t wrap the sandwich for “here” orders. The sauce is heated. Neo throws up in the van.
By 2 p.m. I am on I-20 headed west. The dogs are passed out in the back seat. The A/C is cranked.
My first order of business when I return home is to fill my prescription and take a second dose of steroids.
The second thing I do is call Mango.
While sympathetic, he is decidedly unwilling to take any responsibility what-so-ever for my Poison Ivy.
Turns out the only thing I can blame on Mango is my current obsession with bikes.
Thank you, my dear. I am ever grateful.