Much of today was lost to a kind of slow underwater haze which was much less evocative than it sounds, because much of last night was spent at the ER in Mount Auburn for what I've had to conclude was some kind of anomalous allergic reaction: itching and swelling of the mouth and throat, for which they send you to the emergency room if you call urgent care at two in the morning to ask what the hell. To be fair to urgent care, it was genuinely uncomfortable and more than slightly worrying, because it was not a reaction I had ever experienced before. Zinc lozenges make the roof of my mouth itch, which is why I tried them exactly once for about thirty seconds in high school, but at the point when I called, I was constantly clearing my throat to get out the feeling that something was stuck in it and it wasn't working. I still wondered all the way if I was just wasting everybody's time. The nurse who was doing triage told me very firmly that anything that interferes with the airways is not a waste of time to come in for. So they admitted me. And I did not go into delayed anaphylaxis. The itching sensation did not get much better, but it didn't get worse. I read A Country Doctor's Notebook (1927), which was either the best or the worst grab-off-the-nightstand reading under the circumstances. And after a couple of hours, everybody agreed I wasn't going to die and I went home.

On stunning amounts of Benadryl, which I had never taken before. I had to agree to stay on it for twenty-four hours just to be sure whatever the reaction was wouldn't come back. I slept without dreams from six to noon and spent the afternoon profoundly grateful I don't have a job which requires me to operate heavy machinery.

But tonight I was gaudior's navigator to the NESFA Clubhouse in Magoun Square so that she could pick up a gorgeous piece of art she'd bought this weekend at Boskone and rushthatspeaks took me to Highland Kitchen for Valentine's Day Observed where I had a bowl of curried goat stew and a double chocolate stout float and I really like Bulgakov even when he's not writing in a fantastic mode. We curled up and talked Kipling and coasters and Lovecraft. I have to remember to pack a tape measure when I go out tomorrow. I have hopes for the future.

And, you know, breathing.