Poison ivy, Publicity, and Ostriches

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SHUSWAP DIARY

Through much trial and error, Deanna Kawatski managed to tackle a small health crisis at home.

What poison ivy, publicity, and ostriches have in common is anyone's guess, but in the past few months, they all con verged on my path. I should have known better ....

At the prickly age of fourteen, my twin sister Donna and I had tangled with poison ivy at a Shuswap beach party. We returned to school proudly wearing panty hose for the first time. But the glittering coach of privilege soon turned into a pumpkin. Our rashes were thriving and spreading until the nylons were more akin to a torturer's device. The itch was so fierce that we scratched our legs until they bled.

Thirty years later, elated by what would amount to a sixteen-mile back road bike trip with Ben and my friend Eric, caution scattered like the pebbles launched by our whizzing tires. As poplar leaves spun in the breeze, I wandered in a glade in the remote reaches of Meadow Creek. Unwittingly, and with a stroke of luck, only my right arm was zapped.

Eight days later, despite the use of calamine lotion, baking soda, and other suggested remedies, my arm had swollen to nearly twice its size. Aggravating the condition was my apprehension about the publicity tour of Vancouver looming on the near horizon. The purpose was to promote Wilderness Mother, my book about raising children in the bush. Whitecap Books had produced a Deanna Kawatski Canadian edition and organized the tour. First I was to do a reading and signing at Elaine's Books in Salmon Arm. In horror I watched what was scheduled to be an autographing arm mutate into a monster. Would it make people run? Without question, I would wear sleeves.

At a clinic in Chase I was told that mine was the fourth case of poison ivy the doctor had recently treated. The physician made no move to touch me and instead told a nurse to bring a basin. I was then instructed to wash off the slathering of zinc oxide while the doctor watched from the opposite side of the room.

The next step, naturally, was the drugstore, where reluctantly I bought forty dollars worth of prescribed antibiotics, antiseptic, gauze, and Band-Aids. It was against my better judgment to take the cloxacillin. I also understood the doctor's aim to head the infection off at the pass even if, in the process, it knocked my own immune system back. I waited several days for the antibiotics to kick in and heal my rash from the inside while my arm continued to throb. I felt like a leper and preferred a cave rather than the spotlight.

OSTRICH RANCHING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA?Among other advantages, ostriches take only onesixth the area that cattle ranching requires.

Nothing stimulates an interest in medicine more than an ailment. In early June, I attended—along with twenty other people—a community health meeting. The star of the gathering was an herbal drink called Can-Aid with a reputably amazing ability to heal. It contained burdock root, Turkish rhubarb, slippery elm, and sheep sorrel. This non toxic formula, originally called Essiac, has been used to treat cancer since 1922. Three people in attendance, including a young woman who had been declared clean of cancer, vouched for its effectiveness. The Can-Aid company had sent a representative to speak. Elizabeth, in white pants, navy blazer, and with the lusty spirit of her native Glasgow, stressed the caution with which Can-Aid advertises its product. But so far, the medical establishment hasn't suppressed testimonials and when people with deadly diseases find a means of relief, they are bound to spread the word.

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