My son is splayed on the couch, watching TV but not really seeing. Surrounded by Gatorade boxes and dosage cups measured in teaspoons-and-a-half, his eyes are glassy while his forehead radiates red-hot heat.

I panicked a little Sunday as he showed me one, then two, then five shape-shifting rashes on his pale flesh. His persistent low-grade fever from the past 10 days was inching higher. The sullen, adolescent scowl that overcame his beautiful eight-year-old face took my breath away, when I dared to ruin his weekend by taking him out for ice cream.

I’m placing my bets on this doctor, the third we’ve seen since the fevers started. She’s earnest and attentive, and listens carefully to every symptom I describe. From the inflamed lymph node to the low-grade fever to the sudden personality change, she takes it all in. As she peeks at his lower back to see the amoeba shaped red rash with the white center, her expression of benign concern changes to one of satisfaction. For a moment I envy how much she loves being a doctor.

“So you don’t think those are hives, do you?”

No, no. It’s not hives.

“But you know what it is.”

Yes, It’s Lyme. Let me grab another doctor to get a second opinion.

She leaves us and I breathe a sigh of deep relief. We can treat this one. Dosage spoons filled with Creamsicle-orange antibiotics for three weeks; problem solved. My son smiles his only-for-mommy smile and kicks his feet against the bottom of the exam table.

Dogs and cats armed with all-access passes to our home, a near-daily parade of dead rodents left for me (and only me), groundhogs scampering through the yard, deer wandering around but keeping their distance thanks to the bear-like black lab. It’s no wonder, really. Our vet told me I was ridiculous as I resisted the tick collars, the potions, the poisons marketed as tick repellents.

Years, we’ve spent in these woods. Biking, running, the dogs by our sides. Walking when I was too uncomfortably pregnant to do much else. Wandering around the preserve, newborn snug against me, on those post-September 11 days when the world would never heal and the sky was always that too-deep blue. Giving these boys days of fun and mosquito bites on the trails. Showing them the beauty of Stamford.

Doctor Number One a half-step behind her, Doctor Number Three returns to quickly verify the obvious. Yup, Lyme. No, no blood test necessary. Which pharmacy? We’ll phone in the prescription; get him started right away, and don’t worry he’ll be fine.

They are so small, these ticks.

Doctor Number Four returns my call, assuring me that the 15 shape-shifting bull’s-eyes covering his body are nothing to fret over. Just continue the drugs, this is the worst of it, he will get better. She hears my voice breaking as I thank her, and laughs when I say I hope this panicky mother is her toughest call of her night.

Suddenly he remembers. “Mommy, I had a tick on me, I think it was a few weeks ago. I took it off.” Where were you? “At camp.” OK, what did you do with the tick? “I guess I put it on the ground.” Why didn’t you tell me? “I forgot.”

He stumbles off the couch, giggling, working his way towards me on the sea legs of a drunken sailor. He laughs as he tells me about his aches and pains, now delirious as his fever breaks. I take his hands in mine and tell him to close his eyes tight. Now picture the Lyme leaving your body. He listens, focuses, closes his eyes for a moment as he clenches my hands tight. OK one more time, just push the last of it out. His green-gold eyes open, full of trust.

Let me carry this one for you, buddy. Just give it to me instead.