Page 84 of The Man I Hate

I wondered if a condition of the disease was losing one’s sanity. I had to piss but wasn’t sure where the bathroom was. Wrapped in damp bed linen, I rolled to my side.

I glanced around the room. Nothing looked familiar.

Empty plastic bottles were scattered about the floor. My phone was on the nightstand closest to me, sitting atop the wireless charger.

I had no recollection of putting it there.

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and tried to swallow but couldn’t produce enough saliva to do so.

A half full bottle of Gatorade sat on the nightstand, beside my phone. I stretched my arm toward it and fell off the side of the bed in the process.

I hit the floor with a thud!

“Mother fucker,” I groaned.

Tangled in my bedsheet, I couldn’t immediately stand. As I began to unravel myself, a voice from the nightstand startled me.

“Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

Confused, my eyes darted to my phone. “Anna?”

“I’m here,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I was trying to get a drink and I fell out of bed,” I said. “Hold on a second.”

“Oh my God.” She gasped. “Are you okay?’

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I peeled the sweat-soaked bedsheet away from my clammy skin and tossed it aside. I grabbed for the bottle of Gatorade. I took a drink, and then another.

“I’m sure,” I said.

I was wearing nothing more than a pair of underwear. Wondering where my clothes had gone, I scanned the room. A tee shirt was draped over the headboard of my bed. A pair of sweatpants were on the floor half the distance to the bathroom, strewn across the carpet.

I took a step. My legs wobbled.

I wondered if I could make it to the bathroom. If I had to, I’d crawl.

“I’ve got to piss,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Like a newborn giraffe, I stumbled toward the bathroom, one awkward step after the other. When I reached the doorway, I wanted to cheer. I didn’t dare, though. I feared I might collapse if I exerted too much energy.

On my way to the toilet, I paused in front of the vanity. I glanced in the mirror.

I could count my ribs in my reflection. My beard was untrimmed. My hair was matted to the side of my head. Creases across my shoulder, chest, and forehead marked where the sheets had pressed against me while I slept.

I tried to count the days. My mind became a jumbled mess.

Bits and pieces of a masked nurse hovering over me came to mind, but I fully realized I hadn’t been to the hospital. I didn’t think I had, at least.

I relieved my aching bladder, washed my face, and stumbled into the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed.