Not Breathing

I twist and bend and turn, trying to avoid it. My head spins and I can’t breathe; stars forming in front of my eyes. Sighing, I plop onto the ground, feet in front of me and I concentrate on my breaths. In. And. Out.

It doesn’t help, so I haul myself to the bathroom to run the hot water. I gasp great lungfuls of steam and it eases slightly. I bite my lip and call the doctor.

***

I think the best course of action is steroids, asthma puffers and a course of antibiotics.

Okay.

And obviously if you get worse, you need to head to the hospital.

I nod my head but inside I’m screaming. I’ve got a baby who won’t sleep through the night and who needs me to fall asleep. I can’t afford to be this sick.

Now, we’re going to do a tapered course of steroids. They might make you a little manic.

Oh. Okay.

I think: Manic? I can do manic. Hell, the energy might be nice.

***

It works and I am manic, but at least I can breathe again. My fingers fly over the keyboard, faster than before. I shake and my skin feels too small for me. I want to walk and talk and do things. I want to curl up in a ball and read, but my feet won’t stop tapping and I’m sure I’ve forgotten to do something important and I should really get up and work out what it was.

***

I sit and write and think about NaNoWriMo. I should join and force myself into the 50,000 word mould. I should use it as an excuse to spend my spare time writing. To call, I am working, when I’m needed elsewhere.

It could be my escape.

I sigh and look at my calendar, at the list of ever growing appointments. At all the days when I’ll barely have time to eat, let alone write.

NaNoWriMo is calling me.

But I don’t think I can commit.