Grief is an odd thing. First it overwhelms you. You want to deny it’s presence. It makes sense to deny it, because somewhere inside your soul, you believe denial will make your new reality just a dream you’ll wake up from eventually. The problem is, you never wake up. It may seem odd for someone to tell you that grief feels very much like fear. I feel overtaken, empty, bereft.
I do not take Ambien for recreational issues. I take it because I will not allow myself to sleep at night, because I wait for the crisis. I wait for the illness, I wait because I am protective. Babies have fevers, they get sick in the dark of the night. Loved ones get lonely at night, people die at night; They get sick at night when a doctor is least likely to be close at hand or in his open office during office hours. It’s difficult to sit up all night in the emergency room alone whether you are young or old; but when you’re older it’s worse. I walked this road with my parents, my grandmother … uncles and now my aunts. I have raised my children and am now raising my grandchildren.
Through out the years, I’ve learned that the worst of what life has hidden up it’s shirt sleeve, usually strikes at night. What trickery; The world sleeps at night. After so many years of conditioning, my internal clock does not work like everyone elses. So I found the light switch for my clock. Ambien turns the lights out. It turns my tireless mind off … And I can sleep.
The worst part is that if I actually sleep at night, it’s not sleep. It’s dreaming … all the time. I’m a vivid dreamer. So I will get no rest if I sleep. Guaranteed. If this continues long enough, night after night, then I will build to anxiety during the day to the extent that I will have full-blown panic attacks. I need to feel normal. I need to be able to function during the day, during the night. If Ambien helps me get 4 hours of deep no dream sleep to accomplish this end, Thank you very much, I am going to take it.
When I was very young, my grandma Mary would sit with me until I fell asleep. Eventually, I knew once I fell asleep I would still be sleeping alone because grandma had to fall asleep too, and she slept in her own room. This inevitability moved me to confront the darkness that surrounded little me. I asked in my tiny voice, “Whose there?” … and a voice answered … “I am.” I froze. I was afraid to breath. I began to cry. eventually grandma Mary came to check on me & I told her what happened. She told me, “Never doubt for a moment. You are protected. The angels surround you here … and if anything is here, or tries to scare or hurt you I will beat it out of here with my baseball bat.”
Today I know there is so much you just cannot beat back with baseball bat.
Yet still, I try …
I stayed with my father during his illness, during the nights … in the hospitals, in the nursing homes … and during his death. All the while, trying to beat back my fears with my beating heart.
His dying was all night and when the sun rose, the light had left his eyes. His breathing was stilled. He was released; His pain was finally gone.
Tonight I stay awake into the night. My grandchildren are asleep safe in their beds.
I listen for things that go bump in the night.
Vigilant …
Hyper-Vigilant …
Afterall, It is what it is.
A Beautiful Melancholy 