Awake in terror.

I wake up screaming and find that my husband has chewed off hands and has placed huge razors in their place. They're jointed in the middle and he's balanced next to our bed on them, his feet off the ground. His face has turned dark and angular like something out of a Jhonen Vasquez comic, and he's tottering back and forth, staring at me.

It's an ungodly time of night, and I keep screaming. Eli tries to calm me but, of course, I think he's trying to kill me and he has knives for hands. I'm slapping, pushing, and fighting; but in that weak-ass way one does when muscles aren't fully working yet.

At some point while thrashing around, I've resigned myself to being cut to pieces so now I'm crying, sobbing, hyperventilating. I begin to fully awake as Eli reaches for me again. I'm still scared, but I grab his hand. I grab his hand and touch each of his fingers to make sure they're real. I do this several times before I let him touch me.

I try to explain what happened, but I know it sounds ridiculous and I'm too tired to go through it all. I settle down, stop crying, and slowly go back to sleep.

I know First Aid.

My husband is falling off the bed. He's also a paraplegic. I grab him under his arms and heave him back, at which point he wakes up and asks, "What are you doing?" "I'm lifting you!" I reply, completely confident in my ability to keep him from falling off the bed. "Oh. Of course."

This is the second time I've woken up thinking he's falling off the bed. The first, though, where I believe him to be a paraplegic.

To his credit, he's tolerated it well, and only made fun of me a little bit the next day.