In Columbia, I dropped James off at his school and as I drove away I was struck by the most astonishing pain: my arms, my legs, my body. I got out of the car and sat on a bench in front of Publix Grocery Store trying to decide if I should go to the emergency room or try to get home. A security guard came and sat with me. A native of Camden, he had worked as a fireman in New York and was there on 9-11. He then came home to retire. The perfect guardian. I was comforted by his presence. The pain subsided and I drove home.
The next day I went to the doctor and was seen by a P.A. who diagnosed me so oddly with pharyngitis and put me on an antibiotic. She told me I had a high white count and my throat looked red. As I was going out the door, she said, "Maybe you should go to the emergency room."
I went home and for the next five days lay on my couch under the frayed soft quilt of my childhood watching true crime shows until I became very depressed and switched to the Food Network.
I had planned to go across I-20 to Hamilton Branch for a hike on Oct. 13, but I am laid low.
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