Well, that was clearly a
lie, elaboration on the truth. He was back the next week, perfectly fine, and told me the whole story, which never involved hospitals, non-breathing, or iron lungs. I had a vivid imagination at 16. I was relieved and life carried on as usual.
Fast forward to our married life, where, any time he is outside in the weeds, trimming trees or bushes, mowing the lawn, anything green, he comes running to me asking if "this looks like poison-ivy" and showing me some random bump or scratch. To which I always say "no." He asks me a little later "after the shower because that's when it's more obvious." I answer "no." And then again, about 3 hours later, just "because sometimes it takes longer for it to appear." And I answer "no." Because the answer is almost always no. Once, (ONCE!) he has actually had remnants of the rash on his skin, a very small amount, and I was in charge of cleaning every single piece of cloth (no exaggeration) in the house ("because the oils can linger for up to 5 years, I could have it on and off again for 5 years!"). Knowing what happens when I say "yes" has given me a keen eye for all possible skin rashes caused by plants.
So, today, he was doing some much needed yard work, and ever so diligently spraying Poison-Ivy poison over every helpless little vine that dared to creep in our backyard. Cursing the plant from hell, and basking in the knowledge that, in Poland, there is no Poison-Ivy-Oak-Sumac-enter random plant name here, anywhere, in the whole country.
Sigh of relief. From him. And me.
P.S. random side note. Uncle Freddie, featured here, is also very allergic to Poison Ivy. Fred contracted a fairly bad patch on his leg the day before our wedding. He was a groomsman. I hope they wash those rented tuxes reeeeal good.