Insomnia

8:41 a.m. Shall I do this? Why not?

Last night I took a sleeping pill about nine o’clock. Insomnia has bothered me several nights in a row, so I decided to break down and take 5MG of Zopiclone as needed. While waiting for it to take effect I proceeded with some regular anti-insomnia activities: made and drank a hot chocolate accompanied by two arrowroot biscuits; played a few hands of solitaire; left my bed companion husband asleep in prep for his early morning golf game; checked his snoring self as my by now languid self slid under the covers beside him.

Did it work for my insomnia? NO! Those restless legs started their ritualistic dance. Pillow armed, I crashed into all the furniture that managed to rush out to meet me between our bedroom and the living room couch, where pillow and I flopped in sunken softness, momentarily lulled into hoping we’d found the spot to sleep. No such dream. Those rubbery legs propelled us (pillow and me) to the den couch. Flop time again. No such luck. Those five legs and three arms managed to cope with the distance between couch and floor before scattering off in all directions, forcing me to try to catch them in order to store them in splintered wooden boxes with no lids. There they danced and cavorted on their own while pillow and I fled to the living room ottoman. Pillow landed first. I hugged her like a friend, better to take stock of the strange happenings around me. OZ this was not.

Get a pencil, the wee voice said. Write it down, the wee voice ordered. Tell the nurse, my mind echoed. Keep a record. Deserting pillow, I turned on a light to better grope for pad and pencil. Kitchen counter, under the temperature and medication charts. Got it. Back to the dining room table. The clock says 3:30 a.m. How can that be?

That medication to make me sleep certainly didn’t work. Zena stumbled barefoot, pillow crashing from room to room in the dark, screaming primeval for six hours looking for a place to light, or hibernate -- the bear rather than the butterfly analogy being the better choice here. No couch worked. No chair worked. No piece of floor, carpeted or otherwise worked. A job with a pencil calmed the mind, focussed me, allowed me to deal with the situation. A final, awkward, heave-ho of the den pull-out couch, straining all physical reserve to the max, definitely worked. I crashed in the best meaning of the term.

What’s this? Wide open eyes? Golfing husband departed and the clock is saying: time to talk to the pharmacist. Zopiclone has now been erased from my list of medications.

Ciao,
Nancy

The Blob Blog

During the forty-eight hours subsequent to my first chemo therapy treatment I was a blob, a barely functioning, boneless mass of heavily medicated reactive tissue. Keeping track of thirteen medications, with much needed help from my ever concerned husband and the chemo home care nurses became my one and only priority. That and retaining fluid in my system took precedence. From some unknown source, energy within emerged to enable me to create a medication chart on the computer, though the exercise took several brief sessions interspersed with lengthy blob times. All required tools of the healing trade were then at the ready.

A couple of days later when a modicum of energy made itself manifest, I tried to read. Reading has always been a reliable resource for my particular state of well being. Reading did not work. The old head on top of the blob could not hack it. Feelings of oppression ensued.

Never give up. There is always a solution. In my case, with rain pattering in sympathy on the windows, I actually sat myself on the piano bench. Now I am no pianist, but seventy years ago my disciplined father insisted that his four children all learn to play the piano. That early learning led my fingers. A few notes raised my spirits. A few more raised my caring husband’s spirits as well. Just like riding a bicycle, I was able to draw simply on a relatively thoughtless primary skill in order to raise the mood of the day. Art therapy at its best.

Find your inner strengths. You have them. Allow your soul to sing that gray song. The colours of the rainbow just may peep through.

Cheers,
Nancy