Wrong Side of the Bed

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed on Wednesday morning. Literally.

It’s funny how disconcerting it was to have my husband snoring to my right rather than to my left, but I figured that I must’ve had a seizure then immediately fallen asleep the night before. Andrew confirmed that this was the case; I had had a few complex partial seizures, and he decided that it made sense to leave me where I was.

It didn’t bother me, at first, that I had no memory of the event. Or, I realized, of a swathe of time on either side of it. This happens, and I’ve acclimated myself to the idea of irretrievable gaps in consciousness. Later in the morning, however, I texted my friend Kayleigh to ask if she wanted to Skype after work. “We Skyped last night, goober,” she replied. “For twenty-five minutes.”

For whatever reason, the knowledge that I couldn’t remember this relatively lengthy conversation, which, Kayleigh told me, she thought I had participated in while drunk, set me into a panic. If I could communicate with someone for almost half an hour without letting on that I was postictal, what else was I capable of? As any not-quite-sane person would do, I desperately tried to get ahold of Andrew to ask if he could recall any suspicious behaviour. He didn’t respond (c’mon, husband, this is the age of INSTANT COMMUNICATION; ten minutes without an answer is simply unacceptable), so I checked my sent text messages, e-mail outbox, call history, and Facebook to verify that I hadn’t done or said something crazily mortifying that would haunt me for the rest of my life. Nothing. I finally heard back from my handsome life partner, who told me that besides the Skype session, I’d only intently watched The Good Wife for three hours straight.

I was slightly reassured, but not completely comforted by this information. So if you know me in real life and heard from me in the late hours of Tuesday, March 4, do me a favour and tell me you didn’t. Ignorance is bliss.