When You Walk Through A Storm

Here I am, up very late, or very early depending on whether you watch the clock or the balance of light and dark between the blinds. Right now it is pitch black, and around three o'clock – when sleep experts tend to think most people are slumbering deepest.

I am not. I now live with a stubborn partner who loves the nightlife – neuropathy. Nerve damage in the lower legs and feet. His favorite time to party is when I'd rather be in bed, joining the rest of humanity on this side of the globe. If I'm not rested for work, keeping a roof over my head will become a bit more difficult than it already is. My pal neuropathy doesn't care.

If he were a separate person, I'd be on the web, looking up the criteria for justifiable homicide under California law.

Most times, my feet don't sense heat, and so assume room temperature. The human body's thermostat is set to run at 98.7 degrees, so room temperature translates into the sensation of standing barefoot outdoors in March before sunrise. That's while in bed with the covers pulled up.

If it were as simple as bundling up, I'd be fine. It's a kind of cold that seems to exist beyond the third dimension; my perception is wacked.

When my numb, frosty hooves aren't shut down, they are hyper. A toe will suddenly think it's just been pounded by an invisible hammer. Or a spot near my instep will at once feel a phantom wire brush being thrust into it, over and over, in rhythm with every other heartbeat.

The only real treatment is to retrain my cells, who've lived on junk for the past five years or so, to start welcoming glucose again – the kind produced by real food. I've actually starved my nerves by consuming so much wrapped and processed garbage, now they are on the brink of a systemic collapse. Only my cells have basically forgotten how to feed them... so I've got to convince them to resume their original job description, with a doctor's and a nutritionist's help.

Then I can walk in the meadow again, or at least feel like I can.

In the meantime, my nighttime companion continues to burn the midnight oil, well into the morning. I have ceased to enjoy the oncoming of bedtime, because I know I won't be alone with my thoughts, my mind free to drift off into the ether.

Well tucked in, I feel like I've been short-sheeted at a cheap motel. And a bland breakfast awaits, by prescription. There's no witty closer here... if I get this thing turned around, maybe I'll write one then.