By Esther Baird
First Published in the Tri Town Transcript Sep 29, 2017
This, dear Regular Readers, is a cautionary tale.
It began when we ran into a group of friends this summer. One husband relayed how he had a nasty bout of poison ivy, everyone murmured sympathies. Except me. I took a not-subtle step backwards.
As we said our goodbyes he went to give me a hug and I gasped.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “I CAN’T get poison ivy. I had it once and just, no.”
The wife, my good friend, looked at me. “Esther, you know it’s not contagious from a person, only the plant.”
I stared at her, unwilling to budge. What? Was I being rude? She’s from the South, so notice I didn’t ask her that question out loud.
Later we texted and I admitted she’d been right except, I explained, “I get so skittish just thinking about poison ivy.”
She understood and added, “The steroids he’s on are even worse!” I replied, “I can NEVER go on steroids. Have you met me??”
She agreed with a smiley face emoji and texted, “Yes, it gives us the shivers to think of you on steroids.”
It’s nice to have friends that get you, and your possible medical interactions, so well. We laughed and went on our way.
Until the baby morning dove.
It sat in the dirt road that led along a meadow at our camp over on Lake George. My mother and I saw it while walking the dogs. Moose, as you may recall, is our Bernese puppy in a mastodon sized body. I immediately began reigning him in, explaining how we’d walk past, we’d heel, we’d…
WHAM!!!!
The horizon flipped upside down and I found myself surrounded by high grass. What?? Why?
Suddenly I was dragged further backwards as I realized that Blue Ears, our older, normally relaxed Berner had circumvented my baby bird intervention with Moose and tackled the dove himself. He chased it into the meadow, yanking me with his leash, and hurling me onto my back. I, in turn, dragged Moose on top of me, and we careened a good 15 feet until we finally came to a stop in a jumble of fur and legs and vines.
Distantly I heard my mother, “Esther!?! Are you ok? I can’t see you!”
I stood up laughing. I was a little banged up, but it was so unexpected that I was overcome by hysterical giggles. Until I realized I was in a hotbed of poison ivy. I’m not sure I’ve laughed ever since.
Sure, I scrubbed myself down, but three days later the first bumps appeared on my leg. I smeared calamine lotion on and resolved to not itch — to stay calm. Then more appeared, and blisters formed and suddenly I had a raging case of poison ivy.
I was living my worst nightmare. I was so far from calm that I could have shredded a “Keep Calm” sign with my bare, itchy, hands. A week later, and much worse, it all coincided with my husband’s family vacation to the Outer Banks.
In case it is not abundantly clear, 14 hour drives do not mix well with poison ivy.
“Mommy almost crashed the car two times on our drive down here,” my younger daughter said helpfully. “She kept trying to make the itching stop and it distracted her from the road.”
Whatever. Staying in the lane is overrated. You know what else is overrated? Like shouldn’t even be on a rating scale? Calamine lotion. I could have smeared pink frosting on myself and fared better. At least frosting might have attracted sharks to eat off my leg at the beach — that would stop the itching, right?!?
My sister-in-law, a physicians assistant, asked, “Are you taking oral steroids?” I snapped. “No, I don’t want to ruin my winsome personality!”
Everyone stared at me. How much worse could I actually be on steroids?
But a few days later, I gave in. I took a low dose, dutifully put on my topical cream, and refused to acknowledge medical advice that suggested caffeine and alcohol could make poison ivy more inflamed. I drank both; and how.
It took weeks for the poison ivy to fully clear. And weeks to believe that interacting with people was back in my skill set. Shivers abounded.
But when I do interact with people now, I’ve learned (until I forget) to not issue declaratives. I will NEVER issue a declarative again. See how that went?
Also, I’ve learned, when confronted with the choice, let the dog eat the bird.