Things That Go ping! in the Night by B. Lynne Zika

Do you know what neuropathy is? How about peripheral neuropathy? Me, neither. But mine has a Napoleon complex. The brat.

I finally order the Muses to shut up at 3:00 a.m. and jitterbug my way to bed. There I lie, not thinking about the 47 things I’m thinking about, and ping! he’s at it again. Napoleon, I mean. I have a feeling this is going to be good.

Four days ago it was a bee sting to the hip. Then the usual 30 fine needles peppering my hands and feet. I sit down to dinner and the knees start aching. Fiercely. I ignore them. Three bites of tortellini later, Bludgeoning crash! and I get a hatchet to the left knee. All right, already. I get it! Now, mon général, what do you want me to do about it? Silence.

But tonight, he’s King. This is a full-frontal attack. He’s skirmishing with hands, feet, shins, quadriceps, chest, right nipple — Hold on a damn minute. My nipple?

There is always a subplot. Mine is tiny spiders. Which my residence houses in abundance. And they only bite me when I sleep. Last week, not only did their work crew find (beneath my long-sleeved robe and long-sleeved gown) the inside of my elbow, but Jack yelled out to Alex, “Yo! Tasty morsel coming up! Hit the nipple!” Just rude.

Therefore, on said nipple I have one spider bite plus Napoleon starts in on it.

The weird thing is: I cannot always distinguish between the two. So as I’m lying in bed with the pings! and the whacks!, I start slapping. Just in case the thing chomping on me has fangs, not muzzle-loading, smoothbore muskets. I’m slapping the feet, I’m slapping the thighs, I’m slapping the chest. (Slapping actually does help the neuropathy. A tad. Try it. I fancy you’ll be prone to insomnia, too.) 

I slap until I have an impressive Dave Grohl riff going. Then I realize:

Napoleon has crowned himself emperor.

I’m not going to take this lying down! Oh, really? You’re in bed, ma chère. (Sigh.)

Then he starts on my ears. Not the auricle. The ear canal. His Imperial Majesty attaches a TENS unit. zip. Zip. ZZZIPPP! Buzz, buzz, buzz. ZZZIPPP!

And, despite my desire to slap the bejesus out of His Little Majesty, I am NOT slapping my ear. White flag of surrender.

Oui, monsieur, you win.

B. Lynne Zika is a poet, essayist, photographer, and fiction writer currently living in Los Angeles. Her books The Strange Case of Eddy Whitfield, The Longing, and Letters to Sappho: Putting Out the Fire are available on Amazon and through other booksellers. In addition to editing poetry and nonfiction, she worked as a closed-captioning editor for the deaf and hard-of-hearing. She has received awards in short fiction, poetry, and photography. Her father, Yewell C. Lybrand, Jr., was a writer himself. Before his death at 36, he bequeathed her this wisdom and mission for a lifetime: Make every word count.