Let me set the scene. It’s Friday morning. I’ve just used the bathroom, a perfectly ordinary human activity, except now I’m standing there wondering why my body has decided to add a little encore. A few uninvited drops. No reason. No warning. Just my nervous system freelancing.
Welcome to my life, where even the most mundane bodily functions have become a neurological adventure.
That was Friday morning. By Friday night, I had a severe ache digging into the left side of my eye socket like someone had parked a Buick behind my face. I took two Advil and went to sleep like a reasonable person. A hero, even. At 2:45 a.m., I was awakened by what I can only describe as my body filing a formal complaint with management. Not quite nausea. Not quite dizziness. More like my stomach and my inner ear had called a joint emergency meeting and didn’t invite the rest of me. I genuinely thought: this is it. This is how it ends. Not fighting a villain. Standing in the dark next to my bathroom at 2:45 in the morning.
I took a clonazepam and an ondansetron, because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who has a 2:45 a.m. protocol. And it worked. I went back to sleep. Superman lives to save another day.
But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about being Superman: the cape gets heavy.