My Second Death
I was too young to remember my first death.
At about one year old, as my mother told it, I developed a severe strep throat. At that time and place — a tiny town in south Georgia in 1943 — there was one doctor, treatments were few, the wait was long.
As Dr. Hayes swabbed my infected tonsils with something Mother recalled as silver nitrate, the wooden stick of the swab broke, I swallowed the antiseptic, and at…