I miss my cat

Ugh, afternoon naps are the worst. I was feeling pretty out of it today, so I decided to lay down, and quickly fell asleep.

When I wake up I hear some children playing outside. I listen to them talk and laugh for a little while, and a thought comes to me that there are more children living here than there used to be. But I like hearing their voices; I'm glad it’s sunny out, and that they’re happy and playing.

The nap seems to be over, so I try to get out of bed — but I can’t move anything. Something is wrong. Very wrong. I’m groggy, and feel extremely heavy. My left arm won’t move. I panic. A woman comes over and I ask her to help me, reaching up weakly with my right arm. I black out or fall back to sleep.

I wake up again, but as I try to move I realize I still can’t move much. My head moves, maybe my right arm, too. Have I been drugged? Am I paralyzed? This time I’m determined to get up, and then manage to fall out of bed and onto the floor. I lay there, face down, with my left arm pinned under my body. I really can’t move ... what’s going on?

Laying there, I see the bare feet of a woman come around a corner, and as she walks towards me, she says, “Oh, no, no, no, what have you done?” She kneels down to help me, and I can see that she’s wearing a light blue dress, which touches the floor next to my face. But then I move my eyes to the left and see a large cat — my cat, I know it’s my cat — come running towards me. I ask the woman to take care of my cat before she helps me.

As I lay on the floor I realize I’m not who I think I am. Or where I am. My bedroom is carpeted, but this floor is tile or linoleum. I know now that she came out of the kitchen from the right, but my kitchen is to the left. (“Or is it,” I begin to wonder.)

I watch the woman trying to shoo my cat away, but I black out again. I come back to consciousness when she’s trying to move me. My head is on her right shoulder/neck area, and I see that she has an interesting tattoo on the back right side of her neck. I’m trying to make out what it is, but I can’t, other than it’s green. As I struggle hard to work with her, I’m suddenly in a different place, in a different bed.

I look around with my eyes only, and yes, it seems to be my own bed. I look down and see that the floor is carpeted. I’m back here. I check to see if I can move; yes, I can. I’m me, and I’m home. I lay here for a few moments in silence, grateful. I look at the bedroom window: it’s closed, and there are no children playing outside. There is no playground here.

As I get up, I realize that I’m shaking. I always shake like this after these things. But I can handle the shaking. I’m just glad to be alive, and to be able to move.

I just want to hug a cup of tea while I sit in my recliner. As I walk to the kitchen to make the tea, a thought darts through my head: I miss my cat.

It’s going to be a while before I take an afternoon nap again.

(A note from March 30, 2014.)