Sleeping Well

Sleep is an important part of my life. I look forward to naps on summer afternoons, as much as I do books to read and walks to be taken. I go to bed early and tend to worry if I'm going to get my required 8-9 hours. I like to think my obsessions with sleep started when the twins arrived. I think there was a good 15 month stretch when I did not sleep for more than two hours at a time, and it seemed as if as soon as I had everyone sleeping through the night, they were all teenagers and I was waiting up for them.

Anyway, there are a few "sleeps" in my past that for some weird reason have found a place in my long term memory.

My favorite place to sleep was in the back of a Ford Falcon coming home from "the country" if we had been to my Dunn grandparents' or home from "the mountains" if we had visited with my Collins family. It was dark, I was stretched out in the backseat (one of the perks of being an only child as well as a child of the 60s - no seatbelts.) My parents talked softly of dreams they shared as my dad held the steering wheel, and the hum of the road was better than any sleeping pill. I was safe and loved and probably full of biscuits and gravy.

Another time of deep rest was when my mom was sick and in the hospital. That night, before other care takers swooped in, my dad tucked me in, taking on my mom's usual job. His tucking-in skills were different than hers. He tucked in all of the covers around my arms and feet all the way up to my chin, much like a mummy, I would imagine. I felt like I might be so bound to the quilts around me that I may never freely move. But, I slept knowing that somehow the tucking in was the best he could do, understanding that the lack of physical freedom he had forced on me was his way of keeping me safe until my mother returned to set our world right again.

As an adult, sleep has served different purposes than simply rest. It has been a best friend when in the depths of depression, and it has served as an elusive dream when anxiety and anorexia have been in the driver's seat.

On my 25th wedding anniversary to Jeff, Carly and I spent the night with dear friends the day before an Open House at the college Carly hoped to attend. For the last year, I had spent countless hours trying to figure out how to preserve my sanity and dignity and move to the simple life I longed for. . . but that morning, unbeknownst to any one, I had made the final decision (although it was another 4 months before I left) to leave my marriage. And that night, I slept.

Last week, I slept again.

My dog, Grace, had surgery on a ruptured ACL a few weeks ago and her recovery has proven to be challenging for all of us. Between boredom and pain, her sleep is disturbed with panting and pacing and whining, and, since her bed is located on the floor next to mine, my sleep is also disturbed.

Anyway, I woke up to my 5:20 am alarm to get ready for work. I was stiff from the cold and completely exhausted. Walter met me with a hug and let me know that my school had been cancelled. Sensing my mood, he turned me around and walked me back to bed, insisting that he straighten up my twisted sheets that come from a night of tossing and turning first. He brought in another quilt and spread it on top of me. By that time, I had slipped into a happy form of unconsciousness, waking 3 hours later to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.

In the meantime, Walter had taken my dog, our dog, out for her "fake" potty break in below freezing weather (for some reason, she insists on going outside before breakfast but refuses to actually do anything) and then he fed her breakfast, took her out again for the real potty break, then medicated her and tucked her back into her bed next to mine.

It was a wonderful sleep. I slept knowing that I was not alone, knowing that I had someone who had my back. I didn't need words, or explanations, or excuses or guilt.

I slept like I was stretched out in the back of a Ford Falcon, listening to the hum of the road.