Tag: sleep

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A Bad Night’s Sleep

Some things just don’t seem necessary, you know? Like bringing sand to the beach. Or rocks to the mountains. Or World Series hopes to a Rockies game.

Nonetheless, a pair of Swiss brothers have decided that what the world really needs is a bad’s night sleep.

Billed as a “zero star suite,” the brothers – yes, of course, they’re artists – are renting out a double bed on a platform with a couple of bedside tables, lamps and no doors, walls or ceiling whatsoever. According to Reuters, “The intention is to make guests think about the problems in the world … and inspire them to act differently.”

The cost: just under $340. That’s with room service, mind you.

So, let me just ask the audience … anyone who needs help thinking about all the troubles in the world, or even just in your corner of it, please raise your hand.

Anyone? Anyone?

Yeah, I kind of thought so.

These days, it’s absurdly easy to dwell on the troubles of the world, not least because we seem to have bought the Whitman Sampler selection. Whatever your faction, philosophy or belief, there’s enough out there to keep anyone up at night. Climate change and court rulings. The economy and gas prices. Ukraine and … well, you get the idea.

And of course, none of us come to these problems with a blank slate. Even in the best of times, we’re all dealing with struggles of our own: family, health or a dozen more besides. If anything, we have too many alarms blaring on the deck. Most are in the “do not ignore” category but each of us only comes with one body and mind to attend to it all. (Well, unless you bought the Doctor Who Time Traveler Accessory Kit, in which case I want to speak with you right after this column.)

It’s easy to get overwhelmed. And depressed. And, well, sleepless.

What’s a person to do?

Something.

No, that’s not a word I left in the column while trying to think of a more profound phrase. It’s what we do. In the end, it’s all we can do.

Something. 
Our piece of the problem. In our place. At our time. However small it may seem.

Some of you may remember that I collect quotes the way some people collect action figures or classic cars. And for a long time, a 120-year-old quote from Edward Everett Hale has had a prominent place in my collection:

“I am only one, but I am one.

I cannot do everything, but I can do something.

The something I ought to do, I can do.

And by the grace of God, I will.”  

Every effort by an individual looks small. But none of them is meaningless. And enough “smalls” put together over time just may add up to something pretty big.

That’s not an excuse to sit back and trust that everything will work out. I’m peddling hope here, not optimism. What’s the difference? Hope commits. It rolls up its sleeves. As another writer put it, by acknowledging that problems can be solved, hope assumes an obligation to get up and do something.

It doesn’t guarantee “easy.” Heck, it doesn’t guarantee anything. But hope calls you to do what you can, where you can.  

Overwhelming? Sure. But not futile.

I’ll indulge in one last quote, from a science fiction author named Leo Frankowski. In one of his books, a modern Polish time traveler explains to a medieval lord that while his people don’t live to fight, they do fight for keeps:

“We fight long wars, and we win,” he says. “Once we fought for a hundred thirty years, when the very name of our country was erased from the map. And we won.”

That’s hope. That’s commitment.

That’s us.

And hopefully, it’s something that helps you sleep a little better at night.

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Just for Kicks

If Paul Bunyan had a dog, he would probably be a lot like Big Blake.

For those just joining us, Blake is our English Labrador of heroic proportions. Say the word “food” and he becomes an irresistible force. Say the word “vet” and he becomes an immovable object. Like a furry giraffe, he can steal leftovers straight out of the kitchen sink; like a canine billy goat, he has consumed everything from aluminum foil to baby wipes and lived to tell the tale.

And at night, it seems, he can kick with a speed and power worthy of Babe the Big Blue Ox.

My wife Heather has been the most frequent witness to these Leg Strikes of Unusual Velocity. This is due to a combination of two simple facts:

1) No matter where Blake the Mighty lies on the bed, his feet are invariably pointed in her direction.

2) I have apparently inherited from my father the ability to sleep through nearly anything, including the blows and lashings of a domesticated earthquake.

Still, I haven’t been entirely oblivious. ( A phrase that could apply to many a husband on many an issue, now that I think of it.) This has been going on for a few months and has become, as the King of Siam liked to say, a puzzlement to ourselves and our veterinarian.

We know it’s not a seizure, because we can wake him instantly from it.

It doesn’t seem to be simple doggy dreams, based on the length and the frequency.

Lab tests so far haven’t shown anything dangerous.

Medicines have slowed the episodes down – a little – without stopping them and even a surreptitious video from Heather’s phone has yielded no clues.

And of course, Blake’s wondrous gifts have yet to include the ability to speak English, so he can’t give us any direct hints as to whether this is the Labrador version of a senior moment, or a reaction to arthritis stiffness, or secret instructions from his masters on the moons of Pluto.

And so, the nightly screenings of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” meets “Chariots of Fire” continue. As do the bruises on Heather’s legs. And our general mystification.

On reflection, I suspect I’ve got a lot of company.

I don’t mean the regular bouts of Canine Kung Fu. (Though if anyone knows where I can get a cheap set of catcher’s shin guards, Heather would really appreciate it.) But the feeling of trying to understand an uncomfortable situation with few or no clues is something that most of us have experienced far too often. Especially when it involves someone we love.

It’s the feeling every parent has had when a young child is sick and can’t explain the symptoms.

It’s the feeling anyone with a nonverbal friend or relative has had when trying to figure out “What’s wrong?” from scattered clues.

It’s the feeling just about anyone has when staring at the news of an increasingly chaotic world and asking “Why?” without response.

It feels helpless. Even frightening. But in the midst of it, all of us are doing one thing right.

We’re paying attention.

Maybe we won’t solve the problem right away, or at all. But if we’re even trying to struggle or understand, then our attention is where it needs to be. On the ones we love. On the ones that hurt. On the problems that need solving and the people who need help.

We’re not turning away or making it someone else’s problem.

We’re taking it into our heart.

That’s where it starts.

And so, our own Saga of Big Blake continues. And with enough love, and attention, and bruise ointment, maybe this particular piece of the world’s problems will finally yield to us.

And that’s nothing to kick about.

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Miss-somnia

“Sweetie, honey, it’s past midnight, you need to – “

“NO!”

The word had been spoken. And even though she had been yawning, blinking, and showing every other sign of being ready to make an urgent appointment with the Sandman, Missy was as clear as an Old Testament prophet. She was NOT going to sleep.

This was, needless to say, a tad unusual. Normally, one side effect of Missy’s developmental disability is that routines go over very, very well. And few things are more routine than the Dance of the Missy Bedtime, wherein is laid out the last steps through the bathroom and bedroom, culminating in a bedside storytime, a final hug, and lights-out.

But that night, the dance band couldn’t even strike the opening chords. We’d had a good time together, even a fun time, despite having to explain that even though the neighbors’ decorations were cool, it wasn’t trick-or-treat time yet.

But all of a sudden, advancing to her bedroom was like suggesting we take a walk down the plank of Capt. James Hook. Missy is tiny, but 97 pounds of “No!” has a power all its own. As Master Shakespeare put it once upon a time, “Though she be but little, she is fierce!”

And so Heather and I talked, and cajoled, and tried to understand. And as her hands indicated an object on the forehead shooting things out (complete with impressive sound effects), the problem seemed to become clear.

“Missy,” Heather explained gently, “it’s just a weird costume. It’s still the real Scotty. Does Mad-Eye Moody sing old sitcom tunes and leave pop cans on the counter?”

Oh, dear.

I might have done my job just a little too well.

Those who read the column last week may remember that I was creating a costume of Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, a hard-bitten ally of the good guys who was most notable by his prominent magical eye. Armed with a milk cap, half a ping-pong ball, and an amazing lack of permanent scars, I had constructed a bright blue duplicate, always angled to one side of where I was actually looking.

Missy had been fascinated by the outfit, and especially the eye, examining it and calling Heather’s attention to it when I was away. She’d even made sure that I put it on for one of her own Halloween parties. (Yes, plural. Missy’s social life is far more impressive than my own.)

But apparently, seeing me in it also weirded her out a little. Maybe more than a little. Again, I was reminded that before she fell in love with dressing up as Harry Potter or Frodo Baggins, Halloween used to be an uncomfortable time of year for Missy – precisely because of all the costumes and masks on everyone around her.

When the familiar becomes strange, what can you trust? Is anyone really what they seem to be?

I think many of us could all too easily agree with that one.

Some of us have had trust betrayed. Some have discovered dark sides to beloved figures that make it impossible to see them the same way again. Many of us – maybe all of us? – have been in a situation that we thought we understood, only to have the ground slip away under our feet like a Longs Peak avalanche.

When a false step becomes that painful, it’s hard to walk forward again. To trust. To not wonder what traps are lying beneath. The experience can be valuable to learn from, but can be taken too far – as Mark Twain put it, the cat that sleeps on a hot stove-lid quickly learns not to do it anymore, but she also learns not to sleep on cold ones.

Healing takes time, and love, and friends. Maybe especially that last. In a nightmare, you’re always alone. In the waking world, there can be someone to help.

So Heather and I took the time. The final approach to the bed was made slowly, just an invitation to sit with me and look at some things on my tablet for a while. Finally, surrounded by familiar love and utter exhaustion, Missy was ready to lie back and relax.

Mad-Eye has been put away. He might come out one more time on Halloween, but only well away from the house.

Masks are fun. But some things need to be handled face-on.

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Night Errant

After about 15 minutes lying on the carpet next to her bed, I looked up into Missy’s face.

“Feeling better now?”

Nod. Smile. “Yeah.”

I smiled back, hugged her. “OK. Now try to get some sleep.”

It was a situation that was odd and familiar at the same time. Growing up, I used to spend some of my nights in the room of my youngest sister, an imaginative girl with equally imaginative nightmares. I’d stay a bit, wait for her to fall asleep, then quietly decamp for my bed.

I’d even had to deal with it as a pet owner once, when our first bird got night terrors, flipping around the cage at breakneck speed. Remembering that she had always enjoyed my music, I began quietly playing on the piano (to Heather’s amusement). Three songs later, Rocky was completely relaxed.

So I had the resume. But there’s still nothing like your first time as a “parent.”

I use the word in quotes since Heather and I are caregivers and guardians for her developmentally disabled aunt Missy, a wonderful woman about eight months younger than me. It’s a role that combines equal parts of parent, sibling, best friend, and sometimes (it seems) second banana in an ongoing comedy act. When Missy smiles and laughs, the room seems to brighten.

But Missy doesn’t talk a lot. So when something scares or worries her, it can be hard to figure out just what.

And that was our challenge when we heard the moans coming from her room late one night – or was it early one morning?

I went in. Heather went in. I went in. Missy went to the bathroom, had her glass of water, sat up a little as each of us tried to deduce what was wrong. Was she feeling OK? Had the day’s story been a little scary? Was she worried about something?

No clear answer. Just a nod or a shake or a shrug, maybe a smile as one of us came in yet again.

Finally, I called on my old big brother training. “Want me to stay up with you for a bit?”

Pause. Nod.

So I turned out the light. Stretched out on the floor. And waited.

It seemed to be enough.

And maybe that’s true for more of us than just Missy.

Sometimes it seems that we live in a world of fears. Some have names: fear for a job, fear for a relative overseas, fear of a bad situation getting worse. But sometimes – maybe even often – they congeal and combine, creating a layer of stress and worry and doubt that hovers like a Denver brown cloud. It can’t be articulated. It can’t even be completely understood.

But maybe understanding isn’t what’s needed.

Maybe what’s needed is a presence.

A friend. A spouse. A parent. Anyone who can be near and remind you that you don’t have to face the darkness alone. Even if they don’t understand the fear, they understand you. They stand by you.

And having them there can make the darkness a little brighter. Maybe even just bright enough.

“Perfect love casts out fear,” the Sunday School lesson went once upon a time. I know that sounds lofty. But even a love that’s still learning can find enough strength to hold fear at bay til the morning comes.

Often, that’s all we need.

Thanks, Missy. Thanks for letting me be that heart in darkness, that friend in the night.

Sleep well.

I’ll see you in the morning.