Last weekend, my son Jake and I drove over to the inleted shores of northeastern Virginia, around the York River, the Rappahannock River, the Piankatank River, the Potomac River and the Chesapeake Bay.
We saw Bill Westbrook’s cleverly designed Hope and Glory Inn and White Fences Vineyard and Winery, his interesting little shops and the Tides Inn down the road, and some very expensive homes on Carter’s Creek. We drove out to Windmill Point and to Reedville and Fleeton and all points around them. Then we drove toward Gwynn’s Island. On the way, we went to a quaint little deli and I ordered a sandwich, just a regular ham sandwich. The woman behind the counter asked if I could wait 10 minutes while she cleaned the slicer blade. I said I could wait.
Small decisions like that can change your life.
The sandwich tasted fine. But about an hour later, I noticed an itching on my arm. I looked down and saw what appeared to be a wicked mosquito bite. And then more welts developed. I examined both arms to see a spreading rash of red lumps cropping up almost instantaneously. This nasty little situation itched like Shaq with athlete’s foot.
I pulled up my shirt. Under my arms was covered in the explosion of swelling orbs and the angry mess was moving down my sides like someone had surgically inserted pieces of a puzzle under my skin. Before it was over, I was covered head to toe in a brutal outbreak of something that was doing a pretty good leprosy impression. I’d never had anything like this happen to me. I’m not
even allergic to poison ivy. But I was reacting like a mustard gas victim to this stuff.
My son Jake looked at me and said, “We have to get you home.” He seemed nervous. I felt okay but my breathing was a little labored. I kept it to myself. We were easily a two-hour drive from home.
“”I should have gone with the dirty slicer blade,” I joked. Jake didn’t laugh.
I told him to find the nearest store and we’d get some Benadryl. I said I’d be fine. He did and I took two. Nothing happened. The swelling and itching got worse. Breathing was tougher. I took two
more. By now I was a scratching, itching, swelling, lump-strewn zombie. As we drove, we tried to figure out what could have caused this, and the “cleaning of the slicer blade” was our only option. Not sure what the woman used but if we made a shipload of ham sandwiches with it, we’d have a weapon that would have our enemies contemplating many other things besides car bombings.
Next morning, I woke up completely normal except for the ugly Benadryl hangover. There was not a single sign of the rash. First thing I did was make a ham sandwich. No cleaner this time.