In Memphis, as a young arborist I had to rescue a co-worker from a bucket truck. He was making a cut on a limb that came back and pinned him in the bucket about 40 feet high. He was not injured but could not move due to the weight of the limb against him. He needed help. So I ascended the tree (using rope and saddle) and realized half way up that I was climbing through poison ivy; thick, woody vines and lush, juicy leaves. But I had to keep going because my co-worker was in danger.
Later, I learned new meaning for the word “itch”. Covered on my neck, belly and arms, I was not deterred from scratching. Blood couldn’t stop me. Neither did threats of scars or spreading, nor anything else, because it relieved the itch to simply scratch. So I did. All those things I heard as a child about scratching being bad, I learned they not true. First Santa, then the Easter Bunny, now this? I was devastated.
Now as a dad, I occasionally see blood from a scratched mosquito bite on Lewis’ arm and I tell him, “Quit scratching. That might scar.” He answers with a smile saying, “But I like scars.” That’s my boy. I let him scratch.
Tara itches like crazy right now. The rashes are healing and it is an insatiable itch. But she is not miserable, because the pain from the shingles is FINALLY gone. Thank God. I am telling her, “Scratch away, bristlefingers. Add these scars to the others if you want.” They are scars in a battle she is winning. That seems to make a scar more bearable.
Tara has yet a new spring to her step; each day more and more strength. God has sustained her again today.