Lazy ass
Sometimes, I shock myself with how much I sleep. And I know, I KNOW...it is completely normal and all that. Still. I feel like a sloth.
I told my GP that it is not uncommon for me to go to bed at 8 p.m. and sleep until noon the next day. SIXTEEN hours of sleep. And then, sometimes I will nap for an hour in the afternoon. He, like my oncologist and all of my other doctors, tells me that this is perfectly normal. Even good for me. That my body is fighting hard to stay alive and in order to do that, it needs rest.
I know this, too. This isn't my first rodeo and I have a lot of medical knowledge. Yet, I feel so guilty when I come swimming out of sleep at noon on a Saturday and T's day began at 6:00 with a brisk walk in the freezing cold.
I think back to the olden days of my life, when I sometimes ran on about 3 hours of sleep per night.
Do what?
Who the hell was she and can she come back please? There is a lot that I would really like to do. I have a very small amount of time and I have all these books that I want to read, all these places that I want to see.
And my sleep is deep. T often tells me that I am asleep in under ten seconds.
"Your head hits that pillow and you are out like a light."
Every single morning, before she leaves for work, she comes in to kiss me goodbye and say something tender. I seldom remember it. I usually wake up around 9 and get up to pee and think that I should I get up, but I SWEAR....the bed lures me back, as if it is peanut butter and I am jelly. I get back in, stretch the aching bones in my legs out and once again, I am gone.
As I've mentioned, my dreams are bright colored and spandexed with tight right turns and left sways. And now, my dreams are often filled with those who have gone before me. They come back and it is as if they are giving me a preview of what is to come. My Aunt Tootsie will pick me up in a little yellow volkswagon and we will go driving down the candy store aisles at Younkers.
"Pick the salt water taffy," she will tell me. "I always liked that the best. Grab me some yellow ones."
I will be in a bar with my Uncle J. He will pour me a jigger of Tullamore Dew and tell me to make a wish. We will slam the glasses down on the bar afterwards and laugh.
I will be walking down the hill on Cass St. with John Olsen, a boy I knew in grade school who died over a decade ago. He will show me drawings of planes and say, "I always wanted to build planes. I never did. Maybe next time."
I always have a hard time waking up and when I do, I never really feel refreshed. I feel foggy. Chemo brained. It's as if I can think, but in slow motion. Still. I try to stay engaged. I go to twitter, to facebook and let myself get riled up by the ignorant. It helps. It reminds me that I'm still me. I'm still capable of caring about my world.
More and more, T and I talk about moving to California.
"There is nothing for you here anymore," she says. "L, C, and S are all gone or going soon. You could die listening to the ocean. There are doctors everywhere and there is only so much that they can do for you."
We talk the logistics of it. Selling our home. She would have to find a decent job with really good insurance. It is so expensive to live out there. But, we have a lot of savings. I argue that I want her to have plenty of money after I die. She counters that she needs very little.
"I just might join the Peace Corps or move to Berlin or France," she says. "Without you, I won't want anything here."
It is something to consider. But, then I think of all the work of moving, etc. and I wonder where my energy will come from. I mean, I guess they could work around me.....while I sleep my deep sleep and dream about dead people beckoning me on.
Dying near the ocean might be something very beautiful.
I look out of the window at all this snow and sigh.
I told my GP that it is not uncommon for me to go to bed at 8 p.m. and sleep until noon the next day. SIXTEEN hours of sleep. And then, sometimes I will nap for an hour in the afternoon. He, like my oncologist and all of my other doctors, tells me that this is perfectly normal. Even good for me. That my body is fighting hard to stay alive and in order to do that, it needs rest.
I know this, too. This isn't my first rodeo and I have a lot of medical knowledge. Yet, I feel so guilty when I come swimming out of sleep at noon on a Saturday and T's day began at 6:00 with a brisk walk in the freezing cold.
I think back to the olden days of my life, when I sometimes ran on about 3 hours of sleep per night.
Do what?
Who the hell was she and can she come back please? There is a lot that I would really like to do. I have a very small amount of time and I have all these books that I want to read, all these places that I want to see.
And my sleep is deep. T often tells me that I am asleep in under ten seconds.
"Your head hits that pillow and you are out like a light."
Every single morning, before she leaves for work, she comes in to kiss me goodbye and say something tender. I seldom remember it. I usually wake up around 9 and get up to pee and think that I should I get up, but I SWEAR....the bed lures me back, as if it is peanut butter and I am jelly. I get back in, stretch the aching bones in my legs out and once again, I am gone.
As I've mentioned, my dreams are bright colored and spandexed with tight right turns and left sways. And now, my dreams are often filled with those who have gone before me. They come back and it is as if they are giving me a preview of what is to come. My Aunt Tootsie will pick me up in a little yellow volkswagon and we will go driving down the candy store aisles at Younkers.
"Pick the salt water taffy," she will tell me. "I always liked that the best. Grab me some yellow ones."
I will be in a bar with my Uncle J. He will pour me a jigger of Tullamore Dew and tell me to make a wish. We will slam the glasses down on the bar afterwards and laugh.
I will be walking down the hill on Cass St. with John Olsen, a boy I knew in grade school who died over a decade ago. He will show me drawings of planes and say, "I always wanted to build planes. I never did. Maybe next time."
I always have a hard time waking up and when I do, I never really feel refreshed. I feel foggy. Chemo brained. It's as if I can think, but in slow motion. Still. I try to stay engaged. I go to twitter, to facebook and let myself get riled up by the ignorant. It helps. It reminds me that I'm still me. I'm still capable of caring about my world.
More and more, T and I talk about moving to California.
"There is nothing for you here anymore," she says. "L, C, and S are all gone or going soon. You could die listening to the ocean. There are doctors everywhere and there is only so much that they can do for you."
We talk the logistics of it. Selling our home. She would have to find a decent job with really good insurance. It is so expensive to live out there. But, we have a lot of savings. I argue that I want her to have plenty of money after I die. She counters that she needs very little.
"I just might join the Peace Corps or move to Berlin or France," she says. "Without you, I won't want anything here."
It is something to consider. But, then I think of all the work of moving, etc. and I wonder where my energy will come from. I mean, I guess they could work around me.....while I sleep my deep sleep and dream about dead people beckoning me on.
Dying near the ocean might be something very beautiful.
I look out of the window at all this snow and sigh.
Comments
Post a Comment