It takes, I am told, twelve to fifteen days for the poison ivy reaction to run its course.

It’s been seven.

I am maddeningly itchy, still. Intense concentration is the only thing that works–tecnu, hot showers, and calagel are increasingly less effective. Falling asleep is growing increasingly problematic. I itch direly. The only thing that consoles me at all is that some of the rashes don’t itch any more–they’re still visible, but the one on the side of my cheek and the underside of the boob are not itchy, merely ugly. This gives me hope that eventually the worst will fade.

Next week I need to make a doctor’s appointment anyway, and maybe if I beg they’ll give me a cortisone shot to go with the annual physical. ‘Course, by that time, it’ll be nearly the end. I hope.

I don’t remember it being this bad when I was a kid. I wonder if I’ve forgotten, or if I am more virulently allergic now, or what. ‘Cos this is just death, and if I was routinely shrugging this off at ten or twelve, I was a much tougher little sprog than I realized, and I’m pretty sure I was a first-class wimp.

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