When two insomniacs share a bed
It might be the most annoying advice we all get about avoiding dementia: "Get more sleep," the articles say, as if we hadn't ever thought of that. But sleep is harder to manage as we get older—particularly if our partner's difficulty makes the other partner’s even worse.
For instance, this recent scene at our house:
Uh-oh, I feel a sneeze coming on. Better catch it early. I stealthily reach for the tissue under my pillow—trying to avoid any untoward movements. Okay, I’m ready for the eruption. I slink down carefully under the covers hoping to stifle the sound. Whew, that was close. Husband still breathing rhythmically; hasn’t budged.
It’s 3 a.m. and I’m wide awake. Given that we both have sleep problems, we try extra hard not to wake the other, knowing how difficult it is for either of us to fall back to sleep. But having to consider my every move naturally makes sleeping all the more difficult.
Where was I? Oh yes, what to do with the wet tissue in my right hand? I’m lying on my right side as usual, facing the outside of the bed. Slowly and awkwardly, I thrust my right arm out from under the covers and fling the tissue. It’s likely to miss the wastebasket in the darkness, but wherever it lands should be soundless on the carpet.
The sneezes have passed, but that nagging allergic tickle at the back of my throat is threatening the serenity, not to mention my ability to breathe. The only thing that works in these situations is a throat lozenge. Fortunately, I’ve presciently positioned one within reach on the nightstand. It’s right next to the tissue box and plastic cup.
Or at least it was. Feeling around in the dark is not bearing any fruit. Can’t be too aggressive or I’ll knock over the cup, which contains just enough water to slake thirst and possibly prevent said tickle but not so much that it will flood the room if it spills, which happens every week or so. Best to locate cup and hold tightly. Plastic on carpet doesn’t make a sound, but my loud expletive definitely does.
Okay, got it! Now I can explore the nightstand with my other hand. Where the hell is the lozenge? Damn, just remembered I put it in my bathrobe pocket when I got up earlier because I was still wide awake two hours after going to bed.
No worries. The robe is right at the foot of the bed. No need to get out of bed again. All I need do is reach for it, locate the pockets, and retrieve the lozenge before I start gagging and waking up the husband … and the neighborhood.
Actually, the long, thick plush robe blankets the bottom third of my side of the bed. Even better. However, it’s so voluminous that I can’t easily locate the outer front—much less the pockets—without actually sitting up in bed. First rule of sleeping with another insomniac: never sit up in bed.
Instead, I try leaning and reaching, one hand frantically trying to rotate the robe in the dark. Good grief, this thing is huge. Where in the world are the pockets? Finally, I locate one and reach in excitedly—nope, nothing but an old tissue there. I try maneuvering to the other side in search of the other pocket. I seem to be going in circles. But still no pocket.
Bingo! At last, I’ve found the lozenge!
Now, to soundlessly unwrap it, without getting my hands sticky from the inside of the wrapper. Okay, it’s in my mouth. Carefully I fold the wrapper to avoid getting stickier. I toss it in the direction of the wastebasket as I did the used tissues.
Mission accomplished—almost.
Have you ever tried to suck on a lozenge while lying on your side? Can you do it without drooling? I can’t. Every minute or so, a pool of sticky drool forms on my pillowcase and I need to move over a bit. Easy peasey, you say? Not so.
As I try to slide imperceptibly on the lumpy mattress, my pajama top gets caught under me, tightens at the neck, and I’m nearly choking. I need to raise my body on my side enough to free me—without bouncing, so as not to disturb my miraculously still-sleeping husband. I try to lift myself by grabbing a handful of pajama so it doesn’t get caught again when I land.
Oh no, I feel a seismic movement nearby. He’s turning over in his sleep! Stay out of his way or you’ll risk waking him, I tell myself. As he turns, he sprawls, pushing his leg out in my direction. I’m now balancing on the edge of the bed, and find myself back at the wet spot on the pillowcase.
I manage to slide ever so little, off the wet spot, and he has not awakened. Now I can finally relax and try once again to fall asleep.
The nose blowing soon resumes and another hour goes by. Sigh. I reluctantly decide to risk it and get up and move into the guest room. I deftly, and I hope silently, swing my legs over the side of the bed, reach for my glasses and my phone in the dark, while of course being careful not to knock over the cup of water, grab my warm bathrobe and head quietly for the other room, trying to avoid the path with the squeaky floorboards.
WTF? The door to the guest room is closed. I do a double-take, turning back to our room in confusion.
Apparently, he’d already left our bed. When? Don’t ask me.