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Deadbug · 09-06-2012, 07:22 PM

It was. Oh boy... it sure was. But I didn't know. I've always been told "leaves of 3, leave it be."

It's been years. Perhaps a couple of decades since I've experienced the pain and itching of the dreaded urushiol found in poison ivy, oak or sumac plants. In fact, it's probably been at least half that span since I've been up close and intimate with the plant enough to be able to identify it. So it stands to reason I wasn't aware that's what was sprouting under my rose of sharon tree when I began pulling it up.

Days had gone by. In fact, several days had passed. Plenty of time for me to get into a vast amount of trouble with other fall cleanup type projects. I, of course, thought nothing of the situation, nor did I know there was a situation to begin with. So little oblivious me happily goes about life as if there's nothing to be concerned about.

Then it started. A small, golf ball sized spot on my hip that was itchy and burned to death when I scratched it. I did what any normal person would have done and put some cortaid on it. No relief and I still couldn't identify it. (hey I never said I was brilliant).

The next day, mr spot was now mr blotch and seemingly taking over my entire hip, onto my butt. So I put some corticosteriod cream that I had gotten from the Dr for my son's eczema. Nothing. No relief. I took, yet another hot shower. Hours later the other hip had a spot. So now I have a Mr Spot and a Mr Blotch. Great. This is gonna be a blast.

I put some other anti itch cream on it. Heck, at this point I'm pulling out household chemicals by the pound and eating Benedryl like it was m&m's. My liver was camping out on my kidneys and my skin was trying to escape the repeated abuse. By then, a bruise on my bum had formed from all the scratching. This is, by definition, torture.

By morning the rash had conducted a hostile takeover of 1/3 of my body. I woke to find both of my hips and my entire stomach, up to my boobs completely covered in the most insane definition of evil I'd ever witnessed. The rash had encompassed my inner thigh and was threatening my girly parts with a vengeance. Now I'm concerned.

Now I'm guessing the number one topic that would weigh on ones mind the most is "how on earth did you managed to get poison oak all over your hips, thighs and stomach?" Of course, that was the second question my DH asked me when the break out occurred. The first question is "What were you doing outside naked?"

Initially, I was slightly annoyed. I live in a very conservative neighborhood and even the mere thought of stepping outside naked wasn't a brilliant idea. However, I can see where one would assume that based on the location of the rash. And the bruise on my bum... well... we're not going to entertain that idea. Naked.... with a bruise on my bum. Yeah... I'm good!

I get desperate. I'm not saying I wasn't desperate before. I'm just desperate with an idea now. Let's Google it. Google knows everything, right?

There it was. Some freaking genius concocted this holistic home remedy guaranteed to clear up the itching immediately and vanish the rash within 24-48 hours. Baking soda and white vinegar mixed into a thick, peanut butter like paste. The directions? Oh.. simple. Rub the paste deep into the rash until you can't stand it anymore, rinse, dry off and then douse the area with just white vinegar. And I'm just dumb enough to buy into all that.

That doesn't sound too hard. I decide to try it.

I get into the shower, wash the rest of my body with normal soap, rinse off and prepare myself mentally for the scrubbing of the baking soda. I don't know why, but something just told me this part wasn't going to be the most pleasant experience. Truthfully, it ranked snugly in between pulling my toenails off with a soldering iron and plucking my eyeballs out with a fork. Yeah... THAT bad.

I scrub, breathe, and then I scrub some more. I can't be 100% certain, but I'm pretty sure I saw 5 nerve endings crawl out of my stomach when I hit that area. I know at least 4 did. Thankfully, on their way out they had the compassion to kill the surviving nerves, as at that point my whole body went completely numb. Now I'm not sure if the inability to feel your skin is a good thing or a bad thing, but at that point, I was fairly confident it was time to move on to phase 2.

Still in the shower stall, I grab my towel and wrap it around my body like a mother embracing an injured child. 3 layers of my epidermis lay on the shower floor and I'm quivering as though my life had just been threatened.

After a few minutes, I managed to regain my composure somehow and grab the bottle of vinegar. Why, oh why did I think this was a good idea after what I'd just been through? The average person would have conceded in this battle and quit while the prospect of getting out alive was still on the table.

I pour it on. Twice. Yep... that's right. I did it a second time. I don't know why. Please don't ask me why. At that point in time I'm pretty sure I had left all sense of reasoning and logic at the bathroom door. Vinegar ran down my now raw skin, onto my stomach, encompassing my hips and... *gasp* my hoo-hoo!

OMG!!!

The above reaction warrants repeating, but I'll move on, instead.

Words cannot describe the amount of pain. My skin, on fire, made a valiant attempt to move to higher ground. My eyes welled up with tears and I began panting Lamaze style (hee hee hoo hoo) to control the pain. The only thing missing in this whole equation was the word "Push". Speaking of my hoo hoo... nah. We're not even gonna go there.

Now in order for me to explain what happened next, I almost have to describe the layout of my master bath room. There's the door into the whole room and then there's a door between the shower and garden tub and the toilet. The shower was in the back of the bathroom The toilet area closer to the main door.

I muster up what's left of my dignity, grab a towel and wipe the tears from my eyes as I make my way to the door. My knees were shaking wildly and my heartrate high. I was glad the agony was over and I promised myself never to do this again as I reached for the door into the other side of the bathroom. "I can do this." I thought to myself. "I'm a strong woman."

Now what happened next is a bit of a blur, but can be best described as a organic, nuclear bomb that, for all intensive purposes, detonated in my face as soon as I opened the door. The overwhelming odor quickly crawled up into my nasal cavities and began eating holes in my brain, turning what I had left into something that resembled a block of swiss cheese. My eyes were burning and promptly evicted my tear ducts. As I watched them crawl to the main door, I realized hubby had used the restroom while I was in the shower.

By definition, this situation had escalated to something a little more serious and I was rather convinced my life was in danger. I made my way as fast as my legs could carry me to the main door into my sanctum, better known as my bedroom, when I realized, unaware of what I'd just been through, hubby was holding the door shut as a practical joke on me.

Minutes I tell you.... minutes. That's all it took. I slid like pudding, slowly down the door in complete defeat. My lungs were trying to use my esophagus as a snorkel to pull fresh air from the crack under the door, and half of my internal organs threatened to shut down and begin to decompose. I now understand what the holocaust was truly like. I'm pretty sure, in some conventional way, I relived it.

In any event.... I was officially traumatized.

It wasn't until after I'd given up the fight and conceded to obvious death that he relented and opened the door. There I lay, naked on the floor. My skin was red, swollen and tortured. Tears in my eyes and a shattered ego. I crawled mercilessly on my hands and knees from the bathroom to my bed with a look of total defeat as though I'd just been beaten by the entire Spartan army. Once in my bed, I curled up in the fetal position and whimpered like an abused animal, clinging to life and praying for death. Words cannot articulate the wretched stench that filled that room, but whatever it was, it made the city sewage treatment plant smell like a perfume factory.

So the moral of this whole story is never pull weeds without gloves, wash your hands before and after you potty and for the love of God and all things holy, lock BOTH of your bathroom doors before getting into the shower.

09-06-2012, 07:22 PM	#1
Deadbug Donating Senior Yorkie Talker Join Date: Apr 2012 Location: Utah Posts: 452	Are you kidding me? THAT was poison oak? It was. Oh boy... it sure was. But I didn't know. I've always been told "leaves of 3, leave it be." It's been years. Perhaps a couple of decades since I've experienced the pain and itching of the dreaded urushiol found in poison ivy, oak or sumac plants. In fact, it's probably been at least half that span since I've been up close and intimate with the plant enough to be able to identify it. So it stands to reason I wasn't aware that's what was sprouting under my rose of sharon tree when I began pulling it up. Days had gone by. In fact, several days had passed. Plenty of time for me to get into a vast amount of trouble with other fall cleanup type projects. I, of course, thought nothing of the situation, nor did I know there was a situation to begin with. So little oblivious me happily goes about life as if there's nothing to be concerned about. Then it started. A small, golf ball sized spot on my hip that was itchy and burned to death when I scratched it. I did what any normal person would have done and put some cortaid on it. No relief and I still couldn't identify it. (hey I never said I was brilliant). The next day, mr spot was now mr blotch and seemingly taking over my entire hip, onto my butt. So I put some corticosteriod cream that I had gotten from the Dr for my son's eczema. Nothing. No relief. I took, yet another hot shower. Hours later the other hip had a spot. So now I have a Mr Spot and a Mr Blotch. Great. This is gonna be a blast. I put some other anti itch cream on it. Heck, at this point I'm pulling out household chemicals by the pound and eating Benedryl like it was m&m's. My liver was camping out on my kidneys and my skin was trying to escape the repeated abuse. By then, a bruise on my bum had formed from all the scratching. This is, by definition, torture. By morning the rash had conducted a hostile takeover of 1/3 of my body. I woke to find both of my hips and my entire stomach, up to my boobs completely covered in the most insane definition of evil I'd ever witnessed. The rash had encompassed my inner thigh and was threatening my girly parts with a vengeance. Now I'm concerned. Now I'm guessing the number one topic that would weigh on ones mind the most is "how on earth did you managed to get poison oak all over your hips, thighs and stomach?" Of course, that was the second question my DH asked me when the break out occurred. The first question is "What were you doing outside naked?" Initially, I was slightly annoyed. I live in a very conservative neighborhood and even the mere thought of stepping outside naked wasn't a brilliant idea. However, I can see where one would assume that based on the location of the rash. And the bruise on my bum... well... we're not going to entertain that idea. Naked.... with a bruise on my bum. Yeah... I'm good! I get desperate. I'm not saying I wasn't desperate before. I'm just desperate with an idea now. Let's Google it. Google knows everything, right? There it was. Some freaking genius concocted this holistic home remedy guaranteed to clear up the itching immediately and vanish the rash within 24-48 hours. Baking soda and white vinegar mixed into a thick, peanut butter like paste. The directions? Oh.. simple. Rub the paste deep into the rash until you can't stand it anymore, rinse, dry off and then douse the area with just white vinegar. And I'm just dumb enough to buy into all that. That doesn't sound too hard. I decide to try it. I get into the shower, wash the rest of my body with normal soap, rinse off and prepare myself mentally for the scrubbing of the baking soda. I don't know why, but something just told me this part wasn't going to be the most pleasant experience. Truthfully, it ranked snugly in between pulling my toenails off with a soldering iron and plucking my eyeballs out with a fork. Yeah... THAT bad. I scrub, breathe, and then I scrub some more. I can't be 100% certain, but I'm pretty sure I saw 5 nerve endings crawl out of my stomach when I hit that area. I know at least 4 did. Thankfully, on their way out they had the compassion to kill the surviving nerves, as at that point my whole body went completely numb. Now I'm not sure if the inability to feel your skin is a good thing or a bad thing, but at that point, I was fairly confident it was time to move on to phase 2. Still in the shower stall, I grab my towel and wrap it around my body like a mother embracing an injured child. 3 layers of my epidermis lay on the shower floor and I'm quivering as though my life had just been threatened. After a few minutes, I managed to regain my composure somehow and grab the bottle of vinegar. Why, oh why did I think this was a good idea after what I'd just been through? The average person would have conceded in this battle and quit while the prospect of getting out alive was still on the table. I pour it on. Twice. Yep... that's right. I did it a second time. I don't know why. Please don't ask me why. At that point in time I'm pretty sure I had left all sense of reasoning and logic at the bathroom door. Vinegar ran down my now raw skin, onto my stomach, encompassing my hips and... gasp my hoo-hoo! OMG!!! The above reaction warrants repeating, but I'll move on, instead. Words cannot describe the amount of pain. My skin, on fire, made a valiant attempt to move to higher ground. My eyes welled up with tears and I began panting Lamaze style (hee hee hoo hoo) to control the pain. The only thing missing in this whole equation was the word "Push". Speaking of my hoo hoo... nah. We're not even gonna go there. Now in order for me to explain what happened next, I almost have to describe the layout of my master bath room. There's the door into the whole room and then there's a door between the shower and garden tub and the toilet. The shower was in the back of the bathroom The toilet area closer to the main door. I muster up what's left of my dignity, grab a towel and wipe the tears from my eyes as I make my way to the door. My knees were shaking wildly and my heartrate high. I was glad the agony was over and I promised myself never to do this again as I reached for the door into the other side of the bathroom. "I can do this." I thought to myself. "I'm a strong woman." Now what happened next is a bit of a blur, but can be best described as a organic, nuclear bomb that, for all intensive purposes, detonated in my face as soon as I opened the door. The overwhelming odor quickly crawled up into my nasal cavities and began eating holes in my brain, turning what I had left into something that resembled a block of swiss cheese. My eyes were burning and promptly evicted my tear ducts. As I watched them crawl to the main door, I realized hubby had used the restroom while I was in the shower. By definition, this situation had escalated to something a little more serious and I was rather convinced my life was in danger. I made my way as fast as my legs could carry me to the main door into my sanctum, better known as my bedroom, when I realized, unaware of what I'd just been through, hubby was holding the door shut as a practical joke on me. Minutes I tell you.... minutes. That's all it took. I slid like pudding, slowly down the door in complete defeat. My lungs were trying to use my esophagus as a snorkel to pull fresh air from the crack under the door, and half of my internal organs threatened to shut down and begin to decompose. I now understand what the holocaust was truly like. I'm pretty sure, in some conventional way, I relived it. In any event.... I was officially traumatized. It wasn't until after I'd given up the fight and conceded to obvious death that he relented and opened the door. There I lay, naked on the floor. My skin was red, swollen and tortured. Tears in my eyes and a shattered ego. I crawled mercilessly on my hands and knees from the bathroom to my bed with a look of total defeat as though I'd just been beaten by the entire Spartan army. Once in my bed, I curled up in the fetal position and whimpered like an abused animal, clinging to life and praying for death. Words cannot articulate the wretched stench that filled that room, but whatever it was, it made the city sewage treatment plant smell like a perfume factory. So the moral of this whole story is never pull weeds without gloves, wash your hands before and after you potty and for the love of God and all things holy, lock BOTH of your bathroom doors before getting into the shower. __________________ Never argue with stupid people. They will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience. Gina and the gang! Last edited by Deadbug; 09-06-2012 at 07:27 PM.