In the summer of 1987, I studied as an American college student in Poznan, Poland. I was in a group of about 10 American students. We lived in the dorm with Polish students.
One of the Polish students had a three-year-old boy who loved visiting our room. He was especially fascinated with my makeup. Doors were often left open, and kids came and went freely.
One day I noticed he had splotches on his skin. I didn’t think much about it. A few days later, I woke up covered in itchy red spots. That’s when it hit me: the boy had chicken pox, and he had been playing with my makeup.
I’d never had chicken pox as a child. I quickly learned how unbearable it is as an adult. The sores weren’t just itchy but also painful. I knew I couldn’t scratch those sores. It took all my willpower to keep from scratching. I couldn’t focus on anything else.
Our group was about to travel to Warsaw by train. We had the same privileges as Polish students, which meant we could travel at student rates. We were able to stay in a fancy hotel in Warsaw for a few dollars a night. The shower had hot water with strong pressure, much better than our pitiful dorm shower. I discovered that blasting the sores with hot water helped reduce the itching for a short time. I was in that shower a lot.
One of my American friends had a relative in Warsaw who was a doctor. She wrote me a prescription for the infection and another for the itching. I was incredibly grateful for her kindness, taking the time to help me.
At the time, Poland was Communist. Supplies were often missing from store shelves. Whenever something was missing, the store clerks would say, “Nie ma,” meaning “We don’t have it.” We got used to hearing “Nie ma” a lot.
At the pharmacy, they filled the prescription for the infection. But when it came to the medicine for the itching, the medicine I wanted most, the pharmacist said, “Nie ma.” No itch medicine. I couldn’t believe it.
Over the next few days in Warsaw, I survived by doing a lot of sightseeing, taking hot showers, and focusing on sheer willpower. I learned to block out the itching, ignore it, grit my teeth, laugh, cry.
Eventually, the infection medicine started working. The itching subsided, and the scabs fell off. I still have a little dent above my left eyebrow from one of those sores, a little souvenir of my itchy days in Warsaw nearly 40 years ago.
Exploring Generations 