Things That Wheeze in the Night

Maybe one reason why I'm so achy and tired this morning (yes, still) is because I had a tough night.

I woke up at three o'clock with my phone buzzing at me. Wha? This convinced all the cats that it was time to wake up and be fed. This convinced me that it was time to go across the hall to the bathroom.

Back in bed, I was too hot. I pulled off all the covers. I was too cold. I pulled on all the covers. Taylor laid next to me with my neck in a death-grip and Dylan was scratching at my ribs as if he believed he could claw his way in and get warm.

I couldn't remember what day it was. Oh, hell. I have to wake up and go to work. No. Wait. Today's Saturday. No, it's Sunday. No, it's Friday. (Here you may go through all the days of the week and get back to asking if it's Sunday.)

At one point, I did fall back asleep but I woke myself up, talking.

This is one thing I've noticed about talking in my sleep - just because I wake up while /because of talking in my sleep, I think it's too rude to just stop talking, so I keep on until I've finished whatever I had to say. I've tried to stop myself, but it's all in vain.

My favorite waking-myself-up episode came from a dream I had about Abraham Lincoln (I know...) and I woke myself up by sitting upright and declaring, "God bless you, Mr. Lincoln!" Unfortunately, this occurred in a dorm room where three of my friends had been snoozing peacefully.

So last night, I woke myself up once by talking in my sleep.

And then I woke up because something was wheezing horribly. As in, last gasping breaths. As in, call the paramedics. I sat up and tried to figure where it was coming from. The humidifier? No, it still had some water in it. Gus? No. Dylan? (Snnnnooorrre) No. At this point, I can only figure out it was me.

Once, many long years ago, I was in a car accident. I was driving and my boss (I spit on the ground) was my passenger. Behind me, an SUV had come out of a tunnel and into the bright sunlight and the driver didn't see the stop light or me. I heard someone screaming. When the dust settled, I turned to the cursed boss and said, "Are you okay? Who was screaming?" He looked at me disdainfully and said, "You were."

There are times when I'm tempted to buy a voice-activated recorder. My few bedfellows have told me that I snore and that I talk in my sleep but they always said, "I never could understand what you were saying."

One person did. Emma and I were camping out on the floor of a Famous Writer's house in borrowed sleeping bags. She shook me awake and said, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She said I'd sat up, pinched her neck hard and had then intoned, "Speak, black mound!"

And God bless you, Mr. Lincoln!