So far, I have not figured out a good way to dictate a blog post while wearing the BiPAP. My voice sounds comical, like a cartoon villain with post-nasal drip. All the Ms become Bs. To the dictation software, manufactured breath sounds like Os and Hs, so the air whooshing out of the mask adds random letters to my words, ghostly forms that were never really there to begin with. The sound of a secret language. The sound of wind.

It’s not like I have to write this way. I could do the blog after the BiPAP, but since I’m just sitting here staring at the computer, it seems like a solid time to get things done. I’ll always be a multi-tasker, even if my arms don’t work, and even if I’m not actually accomplishing anything.

Sparkling water, Sancerre, sweet potatoes. Whenever my thoughts seem like poetry, they usually turn out to be grocery lists.

These stitched-together lists populate my dreams at night. Partly menus, partly schedules, partly just colors that I saw that day. Last night, I had a dream about overwatered orchids. I woke up craving Life cereal, and when Scarlett crawled into bed with me, the gold in her hair seemed like an idea I had put there to save for later. She smelled like the dog, which is unsurprising since she wears him like a sweater.

Clearly I am losing my mind, but only sometimes. Read More>