This morning as I stumbled around our small bedroom bumping into furniture trying to make myself somewhat presentable for yet another day, an unsettling thought popped into my head.

I voiced it: “Kykes,” I said to Poor Kyle, who was still lying in bed (as he would be for the next 15 minutes until the EXACT MOMENT that he’d need to back out the driveway in order to get to work on time [lucky bugger]), “did I have a meltdown in the middle of the night?”

He creaked his tired lids open a sliver to peer at me.

“No.”

But I knew he was lying.

I did have a meltdown in the middle of the night last night…I’m almost certain of it.

And though the specifics fail me, I do remember a few key points:

• It was faintly light in the bedroom when it happened, which made it probably around 3 or 4 in the morning.

• I’m not sure I screamed, but I’m pretty sure I was yelling or at the very least groaning loudly.

• I don’t think I was having a nightmare but I woke up either in intense pain or believing I was in intense pain, and in this day and age is there even a difference?

• The pain, real or dreamed-up, was pulsing from the calf muscle of my left leg.

• The pain was a charlie horse unlike anything I’d ever—in all my life—experienced.

• The pain felt like someone had torn into my skin with his bare hands and sharp fingernails, dug out all my muscles and nerves and tendons, squeezed them with all his might, and then squeezed them a little harder. And then twisted them. And then sqeezed some more.

• The pain made it feel like my left leg was giving birth.

• The pain was excruciating.

• I’m pretty sure when it started Poor Kyle thought someone had broken in to our house, creeped into our bedroom, and begun stabbing me repeatedly right through the duvet with a butcher knife. I’m pretty sure he bolted up, said “WHAT’S WRONG!” and sat staring, dismayed at his wife who’d become possessed. He may also have tried to give me a hug.

Like I said, the specifics fail me.

I don’t know why Poor Kyle lied to me in the morning when I asked him about it. I’d intended to apologise for waking him up and for being a wuss. But he told me that no, on the contrary, I didn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

So there was nothing to apologise for.

I began to question whether it had really happened. It bothered me all day.

I was so sure…

But Poor Kyle said I didn’t…

And why would he lie… It’s not anything to lie about… Not to spare my feelings, surely, because it wasn’t something by which I’d even get my feelings hurt…

So he must be telling the truth…

But I was so sure…

I never did resolve it.

My left calf had a dull ache about it all day, and I know that’s not in my mind.

But Poor Kyle swears it never happened.

Ever noticed how “night terrors” sound so much more horrific than simple “nightmares”?

Why is that?

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