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.

May 12, 2020--Zolofting

To make it through our daily interrelated crises, almost everyone I know is seeking distractions. If like me, beginning as early as 4:00 am in the morning.

TV, even for worldly friends and family who I did not know have much less watch TV, or if they do, drastically limit their viewing, they say, to anything from the PBS NewsHour to Masterpiece Theater, watching television these days seems to be at or near the top of virtually everyone's favorite escape.

But if friends and I have a few drinks and I confess my guilty interest in late night Hogan's Heroes, I am regularly surprised when they whisper that they too love Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz, who famously "knows nothing." 

Knowing nothing--how appropriate for our current era where I prefer to escape with Hogan and postpone until 2025 watching the brilliant but deeply depressing, too close to home Plot Against America. 

If curling up with Hogan doesn't do the trick (and even I can't watch the Honeymooners for the 100th time), there is always a reliable bag of chips or a glass of Port.

Which brings me to Zoloft.

I likely could have benefitted from this anti-depressant decades ago, but whenever I moved to give it serious consideration, echoing in the recesses of my agitated mind was my father's admonition--"These drugs are for woman. Men don't use crutches [not even for broken bones I wondered?] Stop whining. Can't you act like a man?"

Fearful of confronting him, and very much wanting to be a man, I was left to fend for myself, which wasn't always a bad thing.

It took me until recently to raise the issue of psychotropics with my neurologist. 

I said to him, "Thanks in large part to you my PD is under control. That's the physiological part. Can we now work on the psychological?"

He smiled and said, "What took you so long?" 

He waved me off with a smile when I began to stammer an explanation. Which included the bit about my father and crutches.

He indicated he had heard similar stories many times from his male patients and, without sturm und drang, suggested I give Zoloft a try.

With my hand tremor ramping up (it is my anxiety barometer), seriously concerned about what side effects might do to me, I asked, "This won't turn me into a vegetable, will it?" 

"I can't tell you how many millions take Zoloft and drugs similar to it. It has almost no side effects and is compatible with your L-Dopa."

For three months I've been taking one tiny Zoloft pill by five every morning to allow it time to get rooted in my body before confronting the agitation I spent the night spinning and which, for so many years, has made me crazy.

Call it a crutch, claim it's not for real men. What I can report is that my life has been changed and with Zoloft, if I have to, I can get through six more months of Trump. And even feel good about life.

August 23, 2013--Wonderful Feeling, Wonderful Day!

Rona was reading about the overprescription of antidepressants. How in general one in ten use them, but for women in their 40s and 50s the percentage soars to one in four. And then for patients 65 or older, the number increases to almost half the population, with women again having them prescribed at much higher rates than men.

Perhaps worse, there is clear evidence that doctors are too quick to take out their prescription pads to set patients on the path to drug dependence. Six out of seven of older women who began taking Zoloft or Paxil did not fit the criteria for their use by the psychiatrists' bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

It is claimed that this overuse is in part because of all the ads on TV and in women's magazines pushing these drugs so that when people see their doctors they ask for them. Busy doctors are then too quick and willing to write script so they can race along to the next patient.

Reading this report to me from the New York Times, Rona confessed, "Though I'm not prone to depression I do sometimes wake up on the wrong side of the bed."

"I love that idiom--wrong side of the bed." I wonder where it comes from."

"You and your idioms," she said, "I'm being serious."

"Sorry. I thought I was as well."

"What I wanted to share is how I am, non-medically, trying to deal with my tendency toward morning grumpiness."

"By?"

"By putting a smile on my face." I looked at her skeptically. "Really, I'm finding that by doing this I am orienting myself in a more positive direction. This may sound simplistic, but it seems to be working."

"Putting a smile on your face--which makes sense to me since, as you know, I'm a bit of a behaviorist--comes from that song, doesn't it, It's Almost Like Being in Love?"

"Actually, that's not a bad idea."

"What's that?"

"Maybe singing an uplifting song mornings, not just trying to smile."

"Sort of the Power of Positive Singing?"

"Exactly! I'm not wanting to compare myself to people who have bigger problems than waking up not feeling good. There are many who are deeply troubled and can be helped with the proper use of meds. But for those of us fortunately less afflicted, maybe singing a simple song of a certain kind during the day could be helpful."

"Perhaps Zip-a Dee-Doo-Dah," I said, "from Disney's Song of the South would qualify?"

With that, we both began to sing--

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah by Song Of The South
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
My, oh my what a wonderful day!
Plenty of sunshine heading my way
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay

Mister Bluebird on my shoulder
It's the truth, it's actch'll
Ev'rything is satisfactch'll
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay
Wonderful feeling, wonderful day!

This did put smiles on our faces and made us feel lighter-spirited.

"It worked for me," I gushed. "And before going to bed?" which would be in an hour or so, "What might we sing then to insure happy dreams?"

"How about this from the Beatles?" 

Sweetly Rona sang--

Now it's time to say good night
Good night, sleep tight
Now the sun turns out his light
Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you 

Close your eyes and I'll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Now the moon begins to shine
Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you

Close your eyes and I'll close mine
Good night, sleep tight
Now the sun turns out his light
Good night, sleep tight

Dream sweet dreams for me
Dream sweet dreams for you

Good night
Good night everybody
Everybody everywhere good night

"By the way," I said, yawning, "The wrong side of the bed is the left side because in Roman times, the left, or sinister side was considered to be dangerous and even evil."

"This is not an example of the power of positive anything." 

Rona was right--it was getting late. 

With a shy look I asked, "Can we go to bed now?"