When I say, "Three," Snore

The Sleep Center is on the same wing of the hospital as the Geriatrics Ward.  I got onto the elevator with octogenarians and nonagenarians accompanied by their septuagenarian offspring, equipment, or significant others. It was a feisty group. "It's hell getting old," one said to the oldest, most minute of the gathering.  "Well, it's better than the alternative," she joked back. 

I was in the presence of greatness here. 

My mission was, however, different.  I was looking for a Provigil prescription to bring back my memory and help me sleep better at night.  For this my primary told me I either had to see a psychiatrist or a neurologist.  I knew that the psychiatrist was more likely to dose me; the neurologist more likely to tell me to grow up, clean my plate, and drink eight glasses of water a day.  The psychiatrist was also more likely to send me away in a straight jacket, so I took my chances with the neuro.

It was a disaster.  Sort of. 

I met with two doctors and a resident. I was older and bore more life responsibility then any of them.

Three kids, three schools, from K to college application age
Two jobs
An absentee spouse
A sick parent

These were the things in my life that could not be reduced, altered, or delegated.  Plus, for some strange reason, I was in a happy place. No unbearable stress, no anxiety, no hallucinations (they asked).  But my memory had gotten almost tragic in the past year, and I never felt rested.  Was it a terrible brain wasting disease or had I so badly screwed up my sleep pattern that I was becoming a zombie?   

"We don't want to treat people who don't want to sleep," the head doc said.

Dr. Whole Earth had obviously not heard me the first time, so I repeated it:
I want to sleep.
I want something to make the little hamsters in my head stop spinning all the time.
I will not take sleeping pills. 
I want more energy during the day and harder sleep at night.

"You can do this yourself," she insisted.  "Here is what you do.  First, you need seven hours of sleep."
"I can do six, tops."
"Ok, well, start with that.  Go to bed at the same time every night.  Set your alarm and get up at the same time every morning.  Whatever you do, when you wake up in the middle of the night, do not start cleaning."

Well, now there was a concept.  I cannot say that I have ever awakened at 2 am and cleaned the house.  I cannot say I have ever entertained the notion of waking up in the middle of the night and grabbing a dust pan and broom.  I can barely conceptualize it as something to do during the day.  People who clean in the 'jammies should be over in the psychiatrist's line.  No, I would wake up and use that precious hour or two to read the work of my competitors or churn up a cranky tirade that I would edit in the daylight.  Clean.  Ha. 

"Well, then, read something boring," she offered as a substitute.

What could ever be boring to read?  I actually pay for a subscription to Foreign Affairs Quarterly.  If it is printed, then it contains a spark for something, whether as edification or fodder for satire.  I grew impatient with this neuro thing.  These doctors were clueless cookie cutters.  I just wanted to bolt from the room.  "Read something boring"; please.

"And whatever you do, when you wake up in the middle of the night, never look at the clock.  Rest your head again and try to fall back to sleep. Keep doing this until the alarm goes off.  It really is normal for people to wake up slightly three or four times a night, and it will happen more often as you get older. It doesn't mean you aren't getting a deep sleep. You simply have to stop using these slight awakenings as an opportunity to run to the computer and get something done."

Ok, well, that maybe made some sense.  It was also helpful to learn that what was happening to me was not unusual, not a terrible wasting disease.

"Keep a log so I can see what happens.  Come back in a month.  I bet your memory improves by this alone."

So now I am on a sleep diet.  I will obsess about sleep for the next 30 days.  I woke up 3 times last night, and, following the good doctor's advice, never looked at the clock.  Then, of course, because I really do belong in the psychiatrist's office, I had a nightmare about looking at the clock, and every time I did, it was the same time.

Now, I will go to work without any clothes on and keep missing the school bus along the way.