I’ve never had the chicken pox. My sister did, my friends did, even my parents did. But never me. I avoided those tortuous weeks of itch — salves and scabs and scolding.
But I didn’t get off scot-free. I still itched. In fact, throughout childhood I experienced an itch that was deeper and more persistent than any itch you can imagine.
And it was a real head-scratcher. For years, I barraged my mother with questions that, to her, made little logical sense. Why can’t I stop washing my hands?
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