Collections - 8. Chapter 8 -- Ragweed Rag

Ragweed Rag

Every summer, I’m besieged by the Giant Ragweed and its friends. I’m armed with eye drops, nose spray, decongestants, Kleenex, antihistamines, a clump of garlic, Blue Shield, and a small silver cross. I lie on my bed, air conditioner pumping, my arsenal spread around me like relics of a dead pharaoh. Still, I wheeze and claw my eyes like a straw-hat Oedipus. When my eyes get it, I can’t read or write, can’t watch TV, and every time I blow my nose, my glasses need to be scrubbed. In one week, I waste ten times my weight in paper products, and every evening, I incinerate enough germ-soaked Kleenex to fill a biologist’s lab. For a while, I swapped Kleenex for paper towels – those quicker picker-uppers – as I kept blowing out the bottoms of even industrial strength tissues. The paper towels held, but they sandpapered my nose, now red as a Memorial Day poppy.

My ears also itch – The Sun Also Rises. My ninth-grade science teacher once said, “Never put anything sharper than your elbow in your ear,” but even at 15, I wondered how you managed those logistics. I’ve ignored his advice, steadily massaging my hammer, anvil, and stirrup with all variations of cotton swabs on sticks. Plus tightly-rolled Kleenex and ends of stubby pencils. I once bought a bulb-shaped device resembling a tiny breast, designed to pass comforting water into my ears rather than inflame other desires. It could also serve as a Water-Pic, if you were quick. I tried hot water, iced water, salt water, holy water, but it was no use – my ears itched on. Even worse, every time I turned my head too quickly, I heard the love theme from Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under The Sea – if there was a love theme. I’d gladly have shoved my ninth-grade science teacher in my ear – he was short and round with no threatening angles – if that would have helped. But it only would have been hard to explain.

This affliction greatly limits my mobility. I leave the house, and people take me for an addict – red nose, running eyes, rolling gait. With all the drugs I use, they could be right. If I risk seeing a movie, my heaving and panting in the dark make people think I’m practicing the most primitive form of self-abuse. In the supermarket, I’ve been asked to wear a surgical mask, which makes me look like The Lone Cabbage. Librarians refuse me entry – my sneezes raise dust. In college once, during a particularly bad attack – when my roommates, panicked, watched me turn increasingly green – the dorm counselor who lived next door banged in and ordered me to sneeze more quietly. “I’m trying to be romantic in there,” he mourned, adding that I’d interrupted him with his girlfriend.

When I phone anyone during this sorry season, trying to make even the most basic social plans, my closest friends insist they’re “Just on the way out.” If I stop by unexpectedly, their doors are locked, and I suspect they’re stifling their kids, lest some tot’s squeal confirm habitation. There is one exception – a couple with chronic asthma, made for each other. But they’re not a whole lot of fun to visit. Still, they’re always glad to see me because I make them feel so healthy.

My sneezes have been clocked at eight per minute, each lasting six or more seconds, and they’re loud enough to warrant wearing ear protection. Riding a bike is suicide, which is, of course, illegal. My one advantage: I swim terrifically, having both the added ability to hold my breath, plus an additional means of propulsion. Actually, I hold my breath annually from late May till October.

Sleep is a treat when it infrequently comes, and without it – and with bloodshot eyes looming over blue-black pouches and an inflamed nose – I mostly resemble a Kabuki dragon. My sinuses only drain when I’m dead perpendicular. If my head even begins to approach the horizon, every cavity fills then locks down, trapping surging fluids like the Hoover Dam. Still, I have to lie down – if I doze standing, I’ll topple, crushing innocent household pets. I’ve considered strapping myself to a door, but – if discovered – it would prove as unexplainable as having my science teacher crawl through my ear. Besides, one powerful sneeze, one misplaced strap, and I’d hang myself – a remedy too severe.

Happily, this all ends with the first frost. The ragweed shrivels, I do cakewalks, then toss flaming batons in the air – I’m insured. The horsemen arrived, the savior arisen, I rejoin my friends and start to live again – there’s a march in this. There are day people and night people, some for whom spring announces rebirth, and others, autumn funerals. For me: “The flowers that die in the fall, tra-la. Indicate I’m in withdrawal, ha-ha!”