Something was Wrong.
Nothing was wrong when I was dreaming, or in that half-sleep that comes between Evan’s 2 a.m. breakfast and when I wake for real. Nothing was wrong when my cellphone’s alarm went off, when I reached out and tapped the Dismiss part of the screen. Something was Wrong when I opened my eyes and my vision slid sickeningly to the left. I closed them, and the spinning persisted, then opened them, and scanned from the wall beside my half of the bed to the bed itself, my legs still covered in what felt to be sweat-slicked sheets, to the crib at the foot of the bed and the sleeping boy within, to the lump next to me.
I tried to stand, reached out a hand and braced myself against the wall. I couldn’t do it with my eyes open.
Laura made concerned noises. I forced myself up, and the feeling subsided, but only a little. I stumbled into the bathroom, thought for a long while, experimented, tried to fight the vertigo, vomited messily into the shower. Washing up helped, but (again) only a little. The first phenigran was promptly vomited (into the toilet this time); the second stayed put, and I slept. When I woke, the dizziness had receded.
It’s only happened once before in my life, but it scares me. I have no idea what happened, but it’s since passed.
In its wake, I was temporarily derailed. I’ve only done a quarter of my third draft of my second novel, based on very generous readers who donated time to what I hope will prove sellable. (Saleable? I hate that phrasing.) I got my taxes done, which is great, but not much else on my to-do list. Derailed. I hate the feeling. I hate the waste of the day, as yesterday turned out to be. I hate that I spent so much of it in medicated sleep instead of crossing items off my to-do list.
Today, back on the rails.
