I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have at least a small issue with insomnia. I managed it okay, all the way up to around age 40.

I don’t type so much as I retype. I have to backtrack at least every few words. For instance, I just wrote “all the way up to around age 400”. Then, I decided that wasn’t a typo. I feel 400 when insomnia is kicking my ass. But I digress.

Anyway, around age 40, my insomnia meant I slept between 15-30 minutes at a time. Sometimes, I knew by 2:00 a.m. that I wasn’t sleeping any more. That was bad. Sometimes, I knew by midnight. That was worse.

It took months of badgering my doctor for a sleep aid before he gave me Ambien. I went through 9 months of hell while he prescribed different antidepressants, each one making more miserable than the last. What a nightmare, but that’s a completely different story.

My doctor wasn’t happy about giving me 12 Ambien. For a year.

He had no problem putting me through physical and mental hell with harmful drugs, but didn’t want to give me something that one can grow dependent on? The horror! He made it clear that he wasn’t convinced I wasn’t just trolling for drugs, but was encouraged that I was willing to try other therapies before jumping to the Ambien. The fucking asshole.

Don’t get me wrong. I was happy for relief. Even 12 days worth.

What? Are you kidding me? I’m going to get to sleep one night a month? That’s like a miracle. Maybe I’ll skip a month and sleep two nights for my birthday month!

And forget about a reasonable supply of Xanax for panic attacks. I had a precious few that I kept more as a talisman than actual medicine that keeps full blown panic attacks at bay.

The Ambien worked like a goddamn charm. I would sleep all night and wake up, perhaps a little groggy, but at least I slept.

The only drawback I saw with Ambien is that I had some super strange dreams. For instance, what do you think it means when you dream that your husband’s penis turns into the ruler that Sister Jones used to hit your knuckles with in the second grade?

I took my sleep aid as prescribed. Pop one 20 minutes before bedtime and lights out.

Except, I learned something once. And I am in no way saying anyone should actually do this, but once I took my Ambien and I got involved in doing something and went past that 20 minute mark.

I had this weird, psychedelic 20 minutes where I felt funky and it appeared as if the clothes in the laundry basket were undulating. It wasn’t scary though. It was a completely, okay nearly completely lucid psychedelic experience. Like instead of going on an actual jungle cruise, you go on the jungle cruise at Disneyland. I mean, if Disney had a drug fueled jungle cruise ride. Which of course they don’t.

It’s an interesting thought, though. Right? 

Everything changed once I got past age 50. Doctors no longer treated me like I was junkie begging for a fix.

I remember the first time it happened. I had bronchitis and a sinus infection. I was miserable. He prescribed an antibiotic and then mentioned that my cough sounded painful. I said that it was painful. He asked me if I wanted cough syrup with Vicodin in it.

I thought I was being set up at first. Are you fucking kidding me? Pain killer? For a ramped up cold? 

“Uhhhh, yeah?”

I stopped having to ask for Ambien or Xanax, he’d just refill the prescriptions when they were up.

I read some articles about benzos and was concerned that I was taking way too many. I talked to my doctor about it and told him I was going to cut out the Ambien.

My insomnia got slightly better once I was post menopause. A xanax will help me get to sleep and, generally, I stay asleep. A few bad nights here and there, but totally manageable.

He was skeptical. “Are you sure? I mean, you can always get them if you want them.”

I told him I read that too many benzos can cause early onset dementia and, while my brain and I are often at odds, I’d like for us to keep understanding each other for as long as possible.

He told me that I shouldn’t worry because about dementia because that was more of a problem for my loved ones than me.

So, I have that going for me.

In his defense, I am pretty sure he was kidding about the dementia thing. My current doctor has a weird sense of humor.

I have less than a year before I turn 60.

60.

That is just so fucking weird.

A lot about aging is difficult, but I’ve at least reached the age where I can get my addictive substances at will. And so far? I’ve self regulated in a responsible manner. Mostly. Those jungle cruise moments were pretty cool.

Photo courtesy of Bruno

I had some funny stories.

I’ll tell them to you later.

Please, if you can, consider sending support to Ukraine.

Here are some suggestions.

Doctors Without Borders. 

The Art Of Living

World Central Kitchen. Chef Jose Andres is a fucking saint.

Also, please, make sure you are registered to vote. Make sure you vote in the midterms. It is so desperately important.

In Missouri, they are attempting to make abortion illegal for women with ectopic pregnancies. This is literally a death sentence and murder. They are attempting to sanction murder of a specific group of people. If we allow anyone to sanction murder, then we are sincerely and completely fucked.

Take a moment this week to say something kind for no reason. Find joy and spread that shit. We need it. We need it more than ever.

Please vote.

#SlavaUkraini

Glory to Ukraine.

Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash

So, you know how I got the flu and then got COVID and then the COVID kicked my ass?

Well, funny story.

Randy and Joey both got symptoms after I tested positive.

Randy had a runny nose and mild head cold symptoms for a few days. Joey was sick to his stomach with a bad headache, but his symptoms cleared up in a couple days as well.

So, last Thursday was the first day I felt good.

I mean, I was weak and shaky, but I definitely felt like I was on the other side of COVID. Which took over two weeks.

Anyway, I celebrated by putting together some IKEA shelves called Omar. Randy has been bingeing The Wire. Again. So, it was kind of fitting our shelves were called Omar.

I took the pantry apart and put it back together. My two Omar shelves were kicking ass in their new space.

All was right with the world, man. I mean, my back hurt pretty bad. I totally overdid it. But it was okay. I’d get the heating pad. No harm, no foul. Maybe. We’d see in the morning.

Then, the morning came.

Last Friday morning. The morning when we realized that Joey’s symptoms weren’t COVID symptoms. He had the stomach bug that had been going through the restaurant where he works.

I got out of bed and felt off.

I did a lot yesterday. Way too much. That’s all this is. Yep. I just need to slow down a bit. 

I booted up my work laptop at my dining room table.

In the time it took me to connect to our network and clock in for the day, I realized I was actually sick as fuck. For all that is fucking holy, it hit me like a brick.

I checked a few things at work, clocked out, and emailed my boss that I was done for the day.

I went back to the bedroom and laid down.

I think I was there under a minute before a lot of unpleasant things happened that involved frantic limping from the bedroom to the bathroom. Why limping? Haha, well, I think I have a stress fracture in my left foot. I’ve had them before. I know what they feel like. So, you know, who knows? Maybe, COVID made my bones brittle.

For 48 hours, I endured one of the worst headaches of my life. The headache was bad, but not worse than the extreme pain in my stomach. It was worse than the flu and worse than COVID. By quite a bit. Thank the stars it was 48 hours.

For 48 hours, I was too sick to watch TV. I was too sick to sleep. I laid in bed and stared at the wall. I didn’t bother crying. I’m not sure I could have. Anything liquid was long gone. My lips shriveled up and cracked. I constantly sipped water or soda.

My part of the world got hit with a fairly significant ice storm Friday. I had been about 12 hours into purgatory.

Our bedroom faces the road and is above the garage.

Friday evening, while I stared at the curtains and the wall, I kept hearing this grinding noise with bright light coming in at the edges of our black out curtains. Which aren’t the greatest black out curtains to be honest. 

At that point I was exhausted and there was no such thing as a comfortable position.

I was freezing, no matter many blankets. I kept seeing that light and hearing that noise. I got out of bed and looked. A truck had tried to turn around in our driveway and was stuck. His headlights were right in my face. Which really did wonders for my headache.

I have no idea how long that truck was out there. It feels like it was hours and hours and I knew Joey would be coming home from work soon. Where would he park? Hmmmm?

I thought about voicing my fears to Randy. My god, what will we do? But I realized that would change nothing and that it would also take way too much effort to talk that much.

Turns out, the truck got out before Joey got home. I don’t recall that happening. It must have been one of the times where I would sleep for 20 or 30 minutes.

Joey and Randy took such good care of me. Seriously, you guys, they did.

I mean, mostly.

Okay, I do not want to sound ungrateful, but on Saturday, after I had lived in the bowels of hell for over 24 hours, I decided what I needed was a popsicle.

I fucking needed a popsicle.

Joey went to a gas station and picked up what they had and brought them home. He brought home frozen fruit bars.

Frozen fucking fruit bars. Raspberry, lime or strawberry.

Are fruit bars popsicles? No. No they are not.

I mean, I was polite and all. I accepted a raspberry. I even ate half of it, even though every moment only reminded of how much it was not a popsicle.

I think one of the only times I veered from my path of bedroom to bathroom and back was to throw away my half eaten fruit bar. Fucking fruit bar.

Then they did pull through and brought home honest to god, no color that exists in fruit popsicles. And Randy brought me one.

An orange one.

I mean, if it had been lime, I would have considered that a hostile act. But orange? Orange is next worst.

Then he brought me a cherry one, so I felt that redeemed him as cherry is best.

Next two? Fucking orange. I am not even kidding you.

It is also possible, perhaps, that it turns out having been sick for a goddamn month and then topping it off with the worst headache in years might turn me a little bit into a contrary patient. I mean, it’s definitely possible.

I mean, the good thing is there can’t be too many orange popsicles even left at this point.

I did my 48 hours. Today is the first day after. I am tired. I’m not better, but I am way better. No headache. No other unpleasant horrors. I ate food. It was glorious.

I think we need a bag or limes or something. I’m not sure what’s left out there for me to get. Scurvy maybe?

Although, I do have the fruit bars. Lime ones. That should do.

Fucking fruit bars. 

I really am much better today. Much, much better. I couldn’t put together shelves or anything, but I am better. Things were looking up and then I noticed this odd spot on my arm.

It was like a brownish, flakey oval, little larger than a pencil eraser. It did not look good to me.

And it fucking hurt.

Jesus. The COVID didn’t just make my bones brittle. It made the skin cancer come out. It can’t be a good sign if it already hurts. 

I couldn’t come up with a single good outcome. I only had worst case scenarios.

Then I remembered something. Oh. Wait. Wait wait wait. Remember after you clocked out? And you bounced off the wall? 

Friday morning, after shutting down for the day, I stumbled when I left the room.

I hit the wall pretty hard you guys.

I have a scrape (it’s not a tumor) and a bruise. It’s just all the other stuff was so much worse, I pretty much forgot it happened before even making it to the bedroom.

I emailed my boss a little bit ago and told him I’m taking the next few days off. I need a couple days. Maybe more. I’m feeling a bit skittish about all the other germs. Because you know, if anyone around me has the black plague, then you know I’m gonna get it too.

Wish me hearts and flowers and baby angels riding on unicorns for the next few days. I have a lot of healing to do.

Image by Jeon Sang-O from Pixabay