We decided to go for a walk through the woods. As we walk I remember the landscape a little, especially the brown building up ahead. Flashback 18 years ago to when her dad was going to seminary and lived in that same building. “Erik and I used to have a secret fort in here,” she said, pointing to the left at a clump of dead logs. I breathe and look down. “Is there any poison ivy in here?” I ask, looking at my black capri yoga pants that barely cover my knees. “Maybe,” she answers, and we start through some tall grass. I pick up my legs, like a prancing horse, looking left and right, trying not to panic.
I think of the strangeness of my daughter attending the same seminary as my ex-husband, 18 years later. I remember the painful separations from my children, the long weekends and summer splits, the anger and pettiness of those early divorce years. Thankfully it has melted somewhat into neutral kindness, that relationship between their father and me, but still, still. It’s sometimes very very hard to be kind to certain people.
It starts to rain a little, and as we walk through the field I see some older men on a basketball court. “Should we go show ‘em how it’s done, Kar?” I ask my daughter. I’m sure I couldn’t run very fast (if at all), and pretty sure any shots would be crap, but it’s still fun to strut a little. I might have even stood up taller and walked a little more cocky past them, just to let them know I’m not afraid of anything.
We circle back to her apartment, and she looks at her legs. “I think I got poison ivy,” she says, looking at three red spots on her calves. “I felt it as soon as I touched them,” she says. The room starts getting smaller, my breath comes shallower, I start looking all around. “Let’s quick wash off,” I say, and grab a bar of soap, run it under the water, then scrub my legs very energetically and thoroughly. Kari puts anti-itch lotion on and takes two antihistamines. Oh god. I not only start to panic, but the memories of that one summer when I had poison ivy so horribly and effectively over most of my body, but it wouldn’t go away, and finally I started wheezing because my body was getting invaded. Kari googles poison ivy and it says you shouldn’t use soap - it causes it to spread - only use water, but that feels wrong to me, and I wonder what site she found. She finally tells me not to worry, and can’t understand why I’m freaking out when there are no spots on me. I don’t know. I don’t want to be afraid. This is my year to conquer my fears, remember? I try to reason with my body, get it to calm down, summon my warrior princess self, but it’s useless. I’m obsessing now, grabbing my Purell and squirting a huge glob onto my palm, rubbing it together and slathering it all over my body. My poor legs are now red from toes to upper thigh, from the dishwasher soap shower to the Purell rinse. Kari says, “There’s nothing I can do about it now,” and we get into the car to to the Mall.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. I hate being so scared. “I just don’t understand why you’re so worried - there aren’t even any bumps on you,” she says. And she’s right. So I calm into it and look at my fear. Try to be kind to it, understand it, listen to it. I have another flashback to the absolute worst 24 hours of my entire life. In that single 24 hour period two years ago we have made the decision to take my beloved mother off life support, my oldest son is coughing up blood and my youngest son has an absessed tooth. My stepson has done something very hurtful and we find out that Mom has a super bug and we may all be infected. That is the clincher that sent me into a headspin two years ago, sent me running to a hotel so I wouldn’t be in Dad’s house where all the killer germs may be, made me start looking at every single thing in this world as a potential bacteria-ridden disease carrying thing. It’s the invisible stuff that gets me.
So the poison ivy feels invisible to me right now, and it’s definitely something out of my control. That’s another of my fears - things that I can’t control. I know I know, but at least I’m aware of my fears. Once I look down the road to the worse possible outcome, I see that getting a shot of cortisone in my butt is probably not that bad of a thing, in the end - hah - in the end. I calm down. I apologize once again to Kari, my dearest daughter, and we have a smashing good time shopping at the Mall.
I didn’t have poison ivy after all; neither did she. Her rash was probably a reaction to something else in the woods that day - she has very sensitive skin. I drive the 234 miles home and am tired and relieved to walk in the door. I’ve really missed Bill and Steve. I walk upstairs to where my husband’s watching TV and crawl into his lap, turning his face toward mine I try to kiss him. He turns away. Confused, I ask him what’s wrong. “Don’t kiss me,” he says, “when we went camping this weekend I think the camping pillows we used had poison ivy on them.”