May 20, 2020: Perchance to Dream

Rona said, "If you want to sleep through the night, don't talk about COVID-19 after 8:00."

I hadn't been sleeping well. That is not new.  It is not unusual for me to wake up with a jolt at 4:00 a.m. and though I try to get back to sleep frequently it is to no avail.

With ear buds, seeking distraction, on the radio, I listen to late night talk shows but for the most part they rant about the pandemic and how it was caused by a conspiracy that somehow involves Barack Obama and Bill Gates with one or the other of them also the Antichrist. 

Some distraction!

Rona said, "The other night one of your ear buds popped out and I could hear what you were listening to--a doctor of some sort who was talking about doing radiosurgery on someone's prostate."

I remembered that. Dr. Lederman. He's on the radio frequently during the middle of the night.

"With that blasting in your ears it's a wonder you can sleep at all."

I knew she was right, but I've been doing this for decades and am addicted to middle-of-the-night radio. Sometimes there's a baseball game to listen to, but not this year.

"I know that . . ."

"You need to try to stop this. With everything going on in the world, you don't need more aggravation. You're making yourself crazy and soon you'll be making yourself sick."

"I know . . ." 

"One thing you can do immediately is stop talking about COVID after 8:00. Maybe that would help. You're already taking Zoloft and I'm not comfortable adding a sleeping pill to the mix of your meds." I shrugged, beginning to feel hopeless. 

Rona said, "It's nearly eight o'clock now so why don't we start tonight? I won't let you draw me into a discussion about Trump and the pandemic. That also should help you sleep through the night."

I agreed and less than an hour later we went upstairs to watch some mindless TV before letting ourselves fall asleep. 

That night I woke up for good at 3 a.m., a little better than my usual, but still I knew it would lead to an agitated day.

The next night over dinner, we talked about Rona's city garden, not a word passed between us about the virus. And thus I expected to have some uninterrupted sleep. 

That was not to be.

Though I fell asleep a little past midnight, and that should have launched me into at least a decent night's sleep, by four I was wide awake, waiting for "Morning Joe" to go on the air. I was slipping backwards and losing my motivation to keep experimenting.

The next night, breaking all the rules that just a few days had me feeling optimistic, at about 9:30, as if out of the blue, I asked Rona to summarize for me the two types of tests they give people who they suspect might have COVID.

"The first one is the swab test," Rona said. "It can tell if you actively have the virus, the other one is a blood test and it . . ."

She broke off and punched the mattress. "I can't believe this. After talking about this an hour ago and agreeing we would not allow ourselves to talk about the virus after 8:00, here I am," she smacked the bed again, "here I am doing just that. Talking about it. You've turned me into your enabler. I'm sure Dr. Lederman and his prostate machine are waiting for you."

Rona was right in everything she felt and said.

Weakly I said, "But everything you've been saying about it tonight has been very interesting. I learned a lot. And . . . "

"I give up." Rona said, and with that she turned out her light and rolled onto her side, facing away from me.

At 7:30 am we got out of bed and hugged each other. I tried to apologize. 

Rona said, "Forget about it. I know you're struggling with this."

"I am. I really am. I don't want to be this way. Please, one more time, forgive me. I am trying. I really am."

I knew Rona had heard all this before.

"But one crazy thing," I said with a smile.

"What's that?"

"Like last night when out of nowhere I asked you about the tests, well past eight o'clock, and you began to respond, I assumed I would be lucky to sleep at all. My head would be filled with COVID anxieties. But, maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. Amazingly, I slept very well. No antichrist. No conspiracies. Just beautiful sleep."

"And what are you taking from that?"

"Maybe a little medical talk is not a bad but a good thing?"

"I think I've heard this one previously," Rona said. "But let's give it a try. We don't have much to lose."

And we have for the past few days. And, in spite of myself and my sleep history, I'm feeling optimistic. I'm sleeping quite well.

September 26, 2013--Behind the Times

A friend from England is in the area. Siting with her yesterday morning on the top step of the house where she is staying, looking out into the sun over Muscongus Bay toward Monhegan Island, she said, "This is the only place in the world where I sleep well."

"Why is that? I ask because that's also true for me; and though I have my own thoughts about this, I'm curious why this is such a restful place for you."

Not taking her eyes off the waves lapping the granite ledge, she said, "Some of it has to do with the sound of the water. You know those sleep machines that play an endless stream of natural sounds as a way to free one's mind and help one sleep? There are birds sounds, whale songs, sounds of the wind and forest, and of the tranquil ocean. The ocean being the most listened to to induce a peaceful night. So right out my door here, without the bother of one of those machines, which to me seem so artificial, I find a natural form of calm."

"Maybe it's because our remote ancestors came from the ocean."

"You mean how the sea is the-mother-of-us-all sort of thing?"

"Well, we did descend from fish. There is overwhelming evolutionary evidence about that."

"I thought you Americans don't believe in evolution." She was tweaking me. "But, I know that's true and it may have something to do with being instinctively connected to the eternal that is so conducive to peaceful rest."

"There's something else," I said, "that works for me beside the ocean and air and sky."

"What's that?"

"The isolation. I should say, how I here feel isolated enough."

"That's a curious concept--isolated enough." She glanced at me then turned again to face the water and the horizon.

I said, "We don't live deep in the woods or isolated from neighbors. In fact, I like having neighbors. Even the occasional pesky ones. I am from the city, after all, and too much tranquility and quiet can make me anxious. I need a little more than just nature."

"I understand that. I'm from London though now I live mainly in Brighton. So I as well need a little human activity."

"For me the little part resonates since I like some action as long as it's just that--little."

"I also like being a bit out-of-step," she ruminated. I looked at her curiously and she said, "I'll give you an example."

"That would help."

"That recent tragedy in Kenya."

"The barbaric killings at the mall?"

"That's it. It happened while I was here but somewhat out of the reach of the news. When I'm here I do not take the paper or watch much TV. Almost none at all. And so news of that slaughter took some time to filter to me. As if I were living, as they say these days, off the grid. Rather, half-off the grid."

"This is true to me too, but because of my blog I do need to keep up with the so-called news."

"Sorry, but I forgot about that. What's it called again?"

"Behind the (New York) Times, with the New York part in parentheses."

"I remember that. How you're wanting to have it both ways--you tend to write about things reported in the New York Times that provoke you and also you are signally that you personally are a bit behind the times.  Having a little fun at your own expense. Saying you're perhaps obsolete, no? Behind the times?"

"Exactly."

"So here especially, in a similar way, I too am behind. The mall murders, the debate about Iran and what to do in Syria, your debt ceiling crisis, all of these impinge upon my awareness but in a less immediate and worrisome way that when I'm in New York or London or even my sleepy Brighton."

"You're speaking about what I meant by isolated enough. Not that isolated so that if there were a real crisis that affected me or us directly it would be possible to know minute-by-minute what would be important, even essential to know to avoid a conflagration--a big Sandy-like hurricane--or to be able to mobilize one's thoughts and actions as a citizen because of a major terrorist attack, God forbid, directly on the U.S."

"Isn't this also a stage in life thing?"

"Say more."

"We are after all getting a bit older," not me, I gestured, "and at these latter stages one tends to want to be involved in more generative things. Which by definition means less engagement in the here and now, no matter how vital all of that might have been a few years ago. But now is considerably less compelling."

"I suppose there is some truth to that, though remaining vital is still important to me."

"You feel vital enough to me, if that's any consolation." She smiled wistfully, still gazing toward Monhegan 15 miles off shore.

"But I do need more rest than in the past and that again is where we began--with sleeping."

"You are about to have a birthday, aren't you?"

"Next Wednesday."

"It's a significant one isn't it?"

"At this point they all are."

"But, as I recall, this one is a real number."

"Yes, real. As real as it gets."