My wife had a tick last night. It was right in the middle of her calf, not discretely in her armpits or groin, where they are supposed to burrow in and make their home. A big read blotch, I was now pretty sure the flabby piece of skin I was inspecting the other day was most assuredly not a tick. The girls had tried to remove it with tweezers, but the head wouldn’t come out. Now she was frightened by what remained and folks began the process of online research into the matter.
This morning I only remembered it all when I went to the bathroom. We’ll have to head over to the clinic today and indeed, once she’s up that’s the first thing she wants to do. I have been to the First Care Medical Clinic out towards Highland on 299 before, though it was many years ago. They were open. They took our insurance. And soon we’re strapping on our masks and heading in.
Someone must have the classic feel-good rock station on as its “One for the Road” and “Waterloo” and “Dust in Wind” while we clarify that there was a thirty-dollar charge from six years ago that will need to be paid before we can go forward. Fair enough. Up on the mounted television there are a bunch of surfer dudes in wet suits talking about surfing in Donegal, which looks cold and captures my attention for longer than I would have suspected.
They have the dreaded remainder of the tick-head out in less time than it takes me to read three pages of my book. “Reconstruction” by Eric Foner. Slaves had been marching behind General Sherman, calling him Moses, taunting their former masters, helping themselves Massa's framed paintings, as she returns from a different door than the one she departed from. The prescription had already been sent to Walgreens, so we returned to the car and headed over there to pick up her course of doxycycline and then back home. Today, for the first time in many days, she is not planning on going out to the garden.
Monday, 05/18/20
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