The Huz (you know him, that’s my husband of over 30 years, known to many as Andre the Hitman because he sings the greatest songs) had a tick by the throat. He was pulling it out of my neck and my skin was stretching so far, he could have walked into the other room with it. That tick was holding on for dear life, but finally it let go. The bite became swollen, hot and sore. Surely, there was an infection brewing, and having had Lyme more than once, I decided to go to Garnet Health ER.

After being asked a few questions such as, “Was the tick engorged?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” said The Huz.

I really don’t know how these health practitioners do it.

“How long was the tick on?”

Me: “Hours, maybe days.”

The Huz: “Seemed like minutes to me.”

I was beginning to think the man who once vowed to love, honor and cherish me was now serving as legal counsel for the Tick Community.

The health practitioner, Adam, refused to give antibiotics. Apparently, the latest protocol is that unless the tick was definitely attached for over 36 hours, visibly engorged, and you get there within 72 hours, they don’t automatically hand out doxycycline like Halloween candy anymore. Which honestly feels a bit like waiting until your kitchen is fully engulfed before acknowledging there may be a fire.

Still, I learned a few things.

First, everything your uncle told you about removing ticks might be wrong. The latest advice: No matches. No Vaseline. No nail polish. No soap on a cotton ball. Apparently, all those methods stress the tick out, and a stressed tick responds exactly like a stressed human: it vomits.

Into you.

That, my friends, could be how tick-borne diseases get transmitted, which prompts a question: Are generations of outdoorsmen who thought they were helping actually turning the tick into a tiny biological leaf blower? For me, the jury is still out.

The correct method, according to the latest research, is fine-tipped tweezers. You grab the tick right where the mouthparts enter the skin, close the tweezers around its miniscule neck so it doesn’t throw up on you, and pull it straight out steadily. No twisting, no yanking, no dramatic reenactment of Excalibur being removed from the stone. Sounds impossible. I agree, but it’s worth a try. 

Ticks are basically nature’s little goth grappling hooks. Their mouths are barbed, which is why removing one feels like trying to evict a squatter with a crowbar and emotional support rights.

And if part of the tick breaks off in your skin? Leave it alone. Your body will push it out eventually. Digging around with a needle just turns you into your own backyard surgeon, which rarely ends well.

But here’s the really important thing: don’t flush the tick.

Tape it to an index card with clear tape. Write the date and where it bit you. Stick it in a drawer. Because if, in the next month, you suddenly feel like you’ve been hit by a truck driven by Satan himself, fever, rash, joint pain, weird flu symptoms, that little corpse becomes Exhibit A.

Apparently, some labs can test the tick directly, which honestly sounds like CSI: Woodland Edition.

And another thing I discovered: in many places, a pharmacist can give you the preventative single dose of doxycycline without you even seeing a doctor. Which begs the question: why did I spend two hours in urgent care listening to papers shuffling, nurses whispering behind curtains, and somebody I think I know coughing exactly every eleven seconds like a metronome of doom?

Living in the country changes you. City people worry about muggers. We worry about insects the size of sesame seeds carrying medieval plagues.

Every time I come inside now, I perform a full-body inspection like a TSA agent with trust issues.

The Huz says I’m overreacting.

Easy for him to say. He’s never had Lyme, and ticks are clearly negotiating with him.