The Common: Ticks In The Hedgerows

Last May, having exhausted all possible local options, my husband and I got into our car and drove one hundred miles west. We left home early that morning in search of two specific things: better medical care and a definitive diagnosis. 

During that first drive into Manhattan, we held hands. Almost ten years into our marriage, it’s something we rarely do anymore — and certainly not for prolonged periods of time. Looking back now, I was holding on for dear life. 

For months, my then thirty-nine-year-old brain had felt encased in a thick, soupy, impenetrable fog. It was almost as if I couldn’t see straight.