I usually sleep well, burrowing into my bed at about 9:30 at night and awakening before the alarm at around 5 a.m. But occasionally I have a sleepless night like last week when I awoke at two in the morning.
I went to the bathroom. Twice. I took a Tylenol. I sighed. I tossed and turned.
In fact, I tossed and turned so much that our Nest thermostat, which is mounted diagonally on the wall across from me kept lighting up as it does when detecting major motion. It only stays lit for a few seconds but unfortunately, since it is across from Patrick it beamed its beacon directly into his lazy eye.
After an hour of frustration and sensing Patrick was somewhat disturbed, I took the advice of the experts who encourage getting up and doing a relaxing activity. They say even if you don’t sleep, at least you’ll be doing something besides sobbing and repeating this desperate mantra, “I must go to sleep. I must go to sleep.”
So I roused the Nest again scurrying past it on the way to the living room where I settled onto the couch, which is one of my most relaxing activities
I stared at a digital clock to distract myself from the ache in my right hip, wrist, and shoulder undaunted by the Tylenol.
The ache reminded me of the tumble I took last weekend on the ice, using my right arm to cushion the blow to my hip. I berated myself for not resisting the bookstore window display.
Who could blame me for being drawn to these alluring titles? Farts Heard Around the world: a Spotter’s Guide, Farts in the Wild, and Jurassic Farts.
If my bones weren’t so strong I could have been in the embarrassing situation of explaining to an orthopedic surgeon how I overlooked an icy sidewalk to explore books about farts.
This made me laugh so hard I farted.
Laughing made me grateful I was home snuggled on the couch with a dull ache instead of lying in a hospital bed with an incision.
Gratitude made me hungry.
My mind shuffled through the options I knew were in the refrigerator. I felt slightly queasy so I discounted leftover chicken cacciatore and settled on a piece of toast.
I should have known sleep deprivation and operation of small appliances was a disastrous combination but that’s the thing about delirium. When you have it, you don’t know it.
I felt competent when I retrieved the toaster from the lazy Susan, plugged it in and wacked a loaf of frozen bread on the sideboard to separate a single slice. I maneuvered the slice into a slot and pressed the lever to begin toasting my bland feast.
What I failed to notice was the control knob determining how dark I wanted my toast. Then I entered a floaty time warp jolted from my reverie by the shrill sound of the fire alarm.
I screamed, “Holy *^%#! The house is on fire!” and running at a breakneck speed I smacked into Patrick.
“We have to get out! The house is on fire!”
He rolled his eyes. Even his lazy one. And pointed to the kitchen counter where black smoke billowed from the toaster.
“Oops!” I said with a nervous giggle.
Patrick silently walked to the toaster and pulled the plug. He was kind enough to refrain from flipping the toaster into the trash, but I got the message.
The chicken cacciatore was delicious. Even cold. Because by now I was awake enough to realize the microwave was off-limits.
How do you cope when you are faced with a few hours of insomnia? What is your favorite risk-free snack? Have you ever had someone roll a lazy eye at you?