Six months of wedding planning and preparations culminated in a week of physical labor: We painted our hayloft floor for the reception, we hung miles of twinkle lights. I spent 5 hours stretching on a ladder to restring an antique chandelier that had laid dormant in storage for a year.
Our dear electrician had drawled, “I ain’t never done hung a chandelier in a hayloft before.”
Doing the wedding ourselves on our farm along the sweet Piney River, I was beyond fatigued by the morning before our late-March wedding. Blessedly warm, I guess that is why, a few days earlier, while pounding stakes into rocky soil for twinkle lighting, I hadn’t thought to wear hiking boots instead of glitter flip-flops.
A nice, long morning-before-the-wedding hot shower was just what I needed before spoiling myself with a luxurious manicure at Dickson’s finest, The Sassy Scissors. That evening we were hosting a dinner for family and out-of-town guests at Miss Mable’s Tea Room and Fine Dining Establishment, as posted on the interstate exit sign, along with signage for the Waffle House, Taco Bell, and Pepé’s Pizzaria.
I soaped up, my head filled with images of how beautiful the property looked and how exciting it would be to walk through the field to where—Oh my God, a lump. A quite large lump. Immediately I felt sick to my stomach. Oh, no, could it be a tick bite from my sojourn in the rocky Dickson county soil? Blast those flip-flops.
First things first. I grabbed a mirror and hoisted my leg up onto the nightstand—damn, where were my reading glasses? OK, now I had them . . . Oh my God, there it is, on my left labia (Latin for lip), a big lump with a tick in the middle of it. I grabbed tweezers and after a few tries just knew it was hopeless. Now part of the engorged tick was out and part was dangling. Could it be any more disgusting? A ‘tick on the lip.’
I felt like Lucy Ricardo, not a bride-to-be at 53. I paced madly before deciding to check the Dickson Yellow Pages. I was new to Dickson. I had no clue where, on a late Friday morning, I would find even a clinic, never mind a tick removal specialist. In panic mode, I flipped through directory pages. I could feel the lump and visualized half a tick squirming. All I could find was a children’s clinic.
“This will be interesting,” I muttered as I dialed, still pacing.
“Mornin’ Children’s Clinic,” a sweet-voiced receptionist drawled.
I relayed my problem. She put the receiver down. I could hear her in the background.
“Charlotte, this here lady here has a tick on her privates and she’s getting married tomorrow. Can we help?”
A minute later she returned to me.
“Honey, we can’t help you here, we are a children’s clinic. Go to Dickson Family Medical Group. It is right across from the hospital . . . and good luck, y’hea!”
“If you want to know what happens, read the book!”
DO YOU HAVE A TICK STORY?
