The reluctant traveler

It's 12:45 a.m. I'm sitting in the cramped, stuffy "spare" room at my parents' house, typing on my dad's antiquated PC. Stephen is asleep on his air mattress in their living room. I can't sleep. David will read this, note the time, and tell me: "I can't believe you didn't fall asleep!"

Stephen and I drove here at 11:30, after he became more and more restless and wired and refused to go to sleep at home. He had his meds as usual. Eventually I even gave him an extra 1/2 dose, which I'm allowed to do when he's extra stubborn (and it's been months since I had to do that). He wouldn't lie down. He kept wanting lights off, then on. He began acting like it was morning and he'd just woken up. Unbelievable.

I have no idea what happened. I am at a total loss, and that is my least favorite state of being.

He got sleepy on the ride here, but woke up as soon as I had to get him out of the car. He launched right back into his whiny, agitated state. My mom and I sat in the den and looked at the walls. At one point she said she could tell that I was not doing very well. I agreed. Finally I told her to go to bed. I closed off part of the house so at least Stephen wouldn't disturb my parents. I lay down with him and tried to hug him tight to see if that would help. It didn't.

So, I left the room, called home to let David know we were okay (well, safe anyway) and just waited. After about 5 minutes, I heard nothing, and peeked to see that he had finally collapsed.

This kind of thing used to happen all the time. Thankfully this is an isolated incident. It better be. I just can't go here, like this - not anymore.

The worst part of this whole evening is that Stephen had been fine earlier. I was feeling calm(ish) and looking forward to a good night's sleep. This came out of nowhere. What if it happens again? I know I shouldn't think that way, but I do.

The other disturbing thing is that I sit here dry-eyed. I can't even lessen the pain I feel by crying. Or sleeping.