Abio 26: An embarrassing life experience
Abio 26: An embarrassing life experience
Before I move on and share how, when, and where I married Susan, I’d like to share a few more short experiences I had while living in my one-room, converted-from-a-porch Berkeley apartment while Sue and I were dating. Here’s one now.
I was once naïve. Born and raised in a rural 99.5-percent white Appalachian small town, I didn’t have much exposure to world cultures and people. Even Penn State was a white out. Then I moved to California, Modesto, and on to Berkeley in the multicultural Bay Area, a melting pot of fine stew.
Unlike many, I prefer both the city and the country equally. I lived downtown, but I enjoyed backpacking around the state. One of my early expeditions was to Andrew Molera State Park along the coast of Big Sur. Janet and I had parted, and I had only just met Susan. I went alone to Big Sur with my frame pack strapped to my motorcycle. I hiked the Pine Ridge Trail out to Barlow Flats and then on to the Sykes Hot Springs, 20 miles round trip over three days. Then I lounged at my camp along the ocean hiking headland trails and swimming in the sea.
When I returned to my Berkeley apartment, I was exhausted. My backpack sat inside the door, unpacked for several weeks. Finally, I picked it up, emptied it, stashed it in the basement, and even wore the unwashed blue jeans. Who washes blue jeans, anyhow?
Back at work I got to meet all sorts of people. This was at the time when we were taking in Cambodian refugees. One of their first stops once they’d found a new home was the Phone Center on Webster Street to apply for their first telephone service. They were all so kind and timid and spoke little to no English. Eager to make them comfortable, I greeted each person with a big smile and a warm handshake. Most didn’t know about shaking hands, so I’d show them how with hearty grips and firm fingers.
After a week or more of greeting refugees, my right forearm began to itch. A blister formed, red and raised. I scratched it frequently. Then another blister formed, further up my arm, then another and another. Blisters appeared on both arms now, and they crept up to my elbows. With no idea what was going on, I got scared and imagined that the blisters would continue to spread until they covered my entire body and killed me. I wore long sleeves and kept my ailment a secret from everyone, including Susan. Wouldn’t want my new girlfriend to know I was diseased. Didn’t see a doctor, either. I made my own diagnosis.
Finally, Susan asked me why I was scratching so much. I broke down and confessed, rolling up my sleeves to show her the many blisters. She asked what was wrong with me, and I told her.
“I think I have Asian arm herpes. I’ve been shaking hands with refugees all week, and then these blisters formed. I think I’m fixin’ to die.”
Susan was incredulous. “I’ve never heard of Asian arm herpes. Is that a real thing? To me it looks like poison oak.”
I laughed at her uninformed naiveite. “I don’t know what poison oak is, but I haven’t been around shrubbery in a month. Last time was Big Sur. It has to be Asian arm herpes.”
She did not take my terror seriously, and tried to touch my blisters. I pulled away. “Don’t do that! It’s contagious! You need to stay away from me, honey. It’s all over for me.”
She accused me of being melodramatic. “Go see a doctor,” she advised.
“No way,” I said. “I don’t want to learn the bad news.” She said I should suit myself. A week later, the blisters got worse. The itching was driving me mad. At last, I broke down and saw a doctor. “I think I have Asian arm herpes,” I told him and rolled up my sleeves. He examined my arms. “Hmm. I don’t think so. It looks like poison oak.”
“That’s what my girlfriend said, but it can’t be. I haven’t been in the woods in a month.”
“Hmm. Did you wash all your clothing and your backpack when you got home?”
“Not for a couple weeks, then I put on the jeans and carried the pack and other clothes down to the basement washing machine. I washed everything but my jeans. Who washes jeans? I’m wearing them right now.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Do you know that the oil from poison oak can stay on your clothing up to a year or more?” I shook my head no. “I’m guessing you brushed your jeans against poison oak, and each time you put them on, you bent down to tie your shoes. Am I right?”
“Sure. Of course,” I replied.
He then solved the mystery. “I’m guessing that each time you bent down to tie your shoes, you brushed your forearms against your jeans, correct?” I nodded.
He prescribed prednisone pills and told me to buy calamine lotion while at the drug store, and to wash my jeans and backpack right away. “Wait it out, and don’t scratch. If it doesn’t clear up in a week or so, come back and see me.”
I was demystified and greatly relieved. I did as told, and then called Susan. “It’s safe to come back. It was poison oak after all.”
Back in Pennsylvania, we have poison ivy, but the rash is different. I know from personal experience. Ivy once caused a thousand teeny tiny bumps around an infected area of my right calf. I have since learned that poison ivy, oak, and sumac all have the same infectious oil, called urushiol. I went to the Berkeley library to study up. I learned that inhaling the smoke can blister the lungs and could be fatal. California fire fighters wear protective respirators when fighting brush fires where poison oak may be growing. My friendly, timid refugees were exonerated.
To this day, Susan and my kids still rib me about my supposed Asian arm herpes. They won’t let me forget it. Shortly after that episode, we returned to Big Sur, Susan and the kids, little Kristi and Adam, and me. One day we wanted to wade across the Carmel River near the sea. We all removed our pants and carried them over our heads. On the far side, we decided to remain in our underwear the rest of the day so we could walk in the surf. That day, we became officially The Underwear Family. We bonded.
When I became the backpacking advisor for BHS students for 15 years, a long lecture on poison oak was included. Still, some students got it on their arms from tying their boots, and then slept with their heads resting on those arms, giving them blisters on the sides of their faces. Me, too. I won’t write about the ticks. You can imagine that.
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