I was dog-tired last night and headed to bed early. I started reading the new Ken Follet novel but my weariness got the best of me and finally nodded off on page eight.
I opened my eyes in the dead of night, assuming it was almost 6 am because it was still dark but oddly felt "full of sleep". I leaned over and inwardly groaned when the bright, red numbers of the clock-radio glared only 2:37.
I tried to go back to sleep but it seemed my mind had irrupted with all sorts of thoughts and to-do lists. How had I allowed so many clothes to accumulate in the "need ironing" pile? The dishwasher was full. They should make larger laundry hampers. Why are my ankles so bloated? I need a haircut. Why isn't that java-script working out for me at work? Maybe I should perm my hair. Did Daughter#2 say she needed art supplies for school? The car's oil reminder thingamajig is red, memo to self about oil change.
In between these thoughts, my friend Helen is always there. Everyday is hopeful. Everyday is hopeless. Everyday is another day. Every day is a visit to the hospital; a perpetual feigning of normality. Every day I'm on my guard with other colleagues and friends so no one slips up and everyone keeps a stiff upper lip.
Meanwhile, Husband was snoring loudly and I kept bouncing on the mattress for him to switch sides, shut up and give me a fighting chance to get back to sleep and stop my mind from thinking. Then the blankets were too heavy. I threw them off me and then I was freezing. The second pillow was too high and then the single pillow was too low.
Alas, the battle was lost. After 40 minutes I gave up and just got up and headed for the family computer and the ever wide-awake Internet.
I opened my eyes in the dead of night, assuming it was almost 6 am because it was still dark but oddly felt "full of sleep". I leaned over and inwardly groaned when the bright, red numbers of the clock-radio glared only 2:37.
I tried to go back to sleep but it seemed my mind had irrupted with all sorts of thoughts and to-do lists. How had I allowed so many clothes to accumulate in the "need ironing" pile? The dishwasher was full. They should make larger laundry hampers. Why are my ankles so bloated? I need a haircut. Why isn't that java-script working out for me at work? Maybe I should perm my hair. Did Daughter#2 say she needed art supplies for school? The car's oil reminder thingamajig is red, memo to self about oil change.
In between these thoughts, my friend Helen is always there. Everyday is hopeful. Everyday is hopeless. Everyday is another day. Every day is a visit to the hospital; a perpetual feigning of normality. Every day I'm on my guard with other colleagues and friends so no one slips up and everyone keeps a stiff upper lip.
Meanwhile, Husband was snoring loudly and I kept bouncing on the mattress for him to switch sides, shut up and give me a fighting chance to get back to sleep and stop my mind from thinking. Then the blankets were too heavy. I threw them off me and then I was freezing. The second pillow was too high and then the single pillow was too low.
Alas, the battle was lost. After 40 minutes I gave up and just got up and headed for the family computer and the ever wide-awake Internet.
