Yesterday I encountered a tick. It was wriggling as I touched it, but its mouth was firmly clamped to my skin. The panic rose a little, as I considered what to do. Could I leave it until sated, to avoid ripping off (and leaving behind) mouth parts? Should I attempt a removal?
The wonderful web suggested getting rid of it as soon as possible to reduce the risk of infection, and gave clues on the process. Tweezers in hand, I stretched the skin around it and pushed the tweezer tips into me skin a little, prepared to remove a little of myself to be rid of this nasty little beastie. A pinch and a pull and it was out, and from what I can see it was intact. I rubbed the area down with a cleaning wipe, and then… then the paranoia.
No, that’s not the word. Neurosis?
The idea that if a tick should be on me the day *after* camping, that perhaps there are more, similarly waiting. In my clothes, both washed and unwashed. In my bed. On my person. On my daughter, for whom I’m solely responsible with my wife away. Every itch, every scratch, every tickle, a tick. Inspecting parts of myself. Ironing this morning, clothes that were camping and those in the same wash, inspecting the seams, ironing heavily and slowly on full heat with full steam.
Not a fan of ticks.