The Autumnal Sequestering: Up Late With the Author

Not actually 4AM - it was 5. AM.

It's that bewitching time of year where the temperature drops at night, and we welcome the coolness into our homes along with the smells and sounds of autumn...

...but my sequestering intensifies, as does the temperature in my home, because heat rises and stops in a closed second floor apartment. All windows remain firmly shut as they have since last snow because my body chooses to fight, with ridiculous and dangerous fervor, all of that autumnal welcoming in particular.

See that tall spike? That's my worst mold allergen starting to kick in. I was blindsighted by three epi-pens in 36 hours the day after the spike.

I have new tools this year. Increasing the H2 blocker (and possibly the H1 blocker) seems to be keeping me on an every-other day steroid schedule instead of a daily regimen, and my array of ice packs help when my body suddenly forgets how to regulate its temperature, which happens a lot more when trying to do things in an apartment sitting at nearly 80 degrees at 5AM. Last year's goal was to stay out of the ER, which we did; this year's goal is not to gain another 40 lbs on the steroids. So far it's looking good (maybe I can limit it to 20?) but we're only four days in - and four days out of a three-pen 36 hours.

My sleep is completely out of control between the bipolar disorder and the opposing side effects of three different meds, so I wind up with a lot of time to myself in the wee hours of the morning to think about my situation and wrestle with my circumstances. To be fair, though, it's a lot easier when my sleep "pattern" allows me to be up when nobody else is. One, I don't have to deal with the sun and the extra heat when walking Summer or carefully making the trek to the dumpster - every step is counted now. Two, however, is I'm not actively reminded of everything I can't do anymore when it is dark and I am alone with my dog. I don't look at the sky and think it'd be a great day for geocaching or camping, or see the daily outflux of cars from the parking lot being swept away to jobs, or read what my friends are posting about their work or studies or travels or hobbies or kids. I don't have to worry about small talk taking my breath behind my mask when I'm walking as my neighbors sleep.

Memories, of course, don't care what hours a decent person keeps, and they're so good at hiding in spice cupboards and social media and the craft bin. They have a way of being happened upon.

Earlier this year I didn't put my mask on while poking my head out of my balcony door and accidently smelled spring for the first time in years. I actually had to shut the door, sit down, and just cry because the realization of how devestating this loss was completely overwhelmed me. It's such a basic, raw connection to nature - and despite all the work and learning and self-discipline and medication I've tied my life around to get any scraps of mobility I can I still couldn't experience the simplest of joys lest they wound me. It's just another part of myself MCAS has taken from me.

I remember what autumn smells like. It's not three feet away from me and I cannot be a part of it.

The sun is coming up now.