In the vast range of human sensual experiences, there is one forbidden sensation that give such instant gratification and pleasure that it is, to me, irresistible. It is bad for my health. My wife disapproves of it, and my children plea for me to stop. I cannot help myself.

The flesh is very, very weak.

I am speaking, of course, about that insatiable need to scratch the rash caused by poison ivy.

When vines of bittersweet felled a cherry tree from my neighbor’s woods to my backyard, I was too cheap to pay for a professional to clear it off my property. So on the hottest evening of the summer, I rushed home, put on some running shorts and a light T-shirt, got out my Husqvarna, and chainsawed my way through it. Until I realized that the “bittersweet” vines killing it had “leaves of three” and that I should have “let it be.” By then, I had pulled, smeared and saw-dusted myself with poison ivy roots, leaves and vines on all my exposed — and some unexposed — skin.

The next day, I was red from ankles to thighs, fingers to shoulders, on my right torso, and just to prove that I should never scratch in certain places while outside, I had poison ivy there, too.

I practice medicine, where mind-boggling advances are being made every day. And yet, even on high dose steroids and with access to all that medicine offers, I was miserable. Friends and patients suggested everything from carb cleaner and gasoline to coffee and urine to stop the all-consuming itch. I tried all of them. To no avail. Ice was all that really numbed it.

One evening, my wife took me to a restaurant to try to take my mind off it. I had a bag of ice on my lap and lay my forearms on it. Water condensed, leaking onto my lap so that I looked like I was incontinent. Hoping to slip in and sit down, I, of course, ran into people who recognized me and wanted to talk. I was so itchy, I didn’t even care that I looked like I had wet my pants.

People looked at my rash much as they would a leper, thinking (wrongly) that my poison ivy was contagious. Only the oil, urushiol, from the plant causes the allergic reaction. Having long ago scrubbed it off and thrown out the clothes, I wasn’t contagious.

For a miserable week, I tried my best to avoid scratching. But I would start rubbing, almost unconsciously, then scratching that itch in earnest and with absolute abandon at the pure pleasure. Is pleasure a release of pain? I really didn’t care because it felt so good. The more I scratched, the more I couldn’t stop and the more my skin became raw until I lay bleeding with the itch scratched to bleeding pain that was easier to tolerate but would last only a few minutes before starting to itch again.

At one point, my wife walked over to me, lying on the floor red and excoriated after succumbing to a fierce scratching session, and said, “Well, at least you saved some money.” As cheap as I am, I would have, at that point, spent ten times the amount of money to be able to go back and have a professional handle that dead tree.