Insomnia - Goodnight

According to my husband who is the only person to know this, I am fast asleep as soon as I’ve wished him goodnight. If only I could stay that way until morning. About an hour later, I’m awake, needing the bathroom and this is the pattern through the night, every night. Most times I’m immediately off to sleep again, sometimes not. The nights of waiting for everyone to be home before I can settle properly are long gone, thank goodness.

It doesn’t take much to spook me. Our neighbourhood is quiet, so the slightest sound outside puts me on full alert and I lie still, listening, worrying about someone on the prowl, tampering with doors and cars. I dare to peep but I can’t focus straight away and I’m scared of being noticed, if there is anyone. I’m on another visit to the bathroom.

I wonder if I heard a noise downstairs, or if the toilet flush just sounded like it was something. I rush back to the safety of the bedroom before anything looms out of the darkness. Sirens, there’s always bloody sirens, even at silly o’clock. I’d love to know what’s going on, or maybe it is better that I don’t. I’m safe and cosy under the duvet.

I’m falling from a great height. There’s a loud bang before I hit the bottom of wherever I was going to land. I don’t know if it was a real bang or if I was dreaming. I’m awake again, but paralysed, listening to silence. It sounded like a car crash. If I’m meant to know, I’ll find out. Stay still, stay safe. Go back to sleep.

Disturbed again. This time my coughing wakes me up. I’m coughing due to acid reflux. And coughing makes me need the bathroom again. I sip some water and sit up in bed for a few minutes playing Tetris or Block Puzzle on my phone. I can settle again now that the coughing has stopped.

Insomnia, maybe it is, or maybe not. Night after night is like this. I don’t fit into any recognised category except having a sensitive bladder, a result of surgery. I’m not aware of stress or anxiety. When morning comes I’m dead to the world, in a deep sleep which probably started around four a.m.

Here’s Philip Larkin,

How to Sleep

Child in the womb,
Or saint on a tomb –
Which way shall I lie
To fall asleep?
The keen moon stares
From the back of the sky,
The clouds are all home
Like driven sheep.

Bright drops of time,
One and two chime,
I turn and lie straight
With folded hands;
Convent-child, Pope,
They chose this state,
And their minds are wiped calm
As sea-levelled sands.

So my thoughts are:
But sleep stays as far,
Till I crouch on one side
Like a foetus again –
For sleeping, like death,
Must be won without pride,
With a nod from nature,
With a lack of strain,
And a loss of stature.

           Philip Larkin, 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Stress - Des Res Near the Park, Anyone?

 

It is said, and I believe it, that moving house is one of the most stressful things to deal with. I have moved seventeen times and would dearly like an eighteenth. I know we’ll simply have to bite the bullet, throw caution to the wind and go for it, otherwise we’ll be here for another thirty-odd years looking at the same neighbourhood. Actually, we probably won’t, unless we both live to some great age, defining all medical issues. That’s why we’ve got to move now. I’m feeling a bit stressed now at the thought of it and wish something would happen to make it easier. Ideally, we could buy a property without waiting for a sale on ours. Perfect. Modern static caravans are breathtakingly stunning with all mod-cons, but we want a house. Besides, where would we put all our stuff? I’m having another stressful shudder. We will have to downsize, I know that, it’s how to do it efficiently. What a struggle. We’ve lived here over thirty years, two became three, became four then more often than not, five. Now we’re down to the two of us again. I can’t gauge portion control in the kitchen just for two, so there’s no chance of me deciding if we need three televisions and a cupboard full of bath towels. Books are completely out of any conversation, no reduction necessary, they are all coming. They are not being boxed up until we have a moving date. A moving date, that’s so scary, because where to? It has got to be Scotland. This move has got to be a proper relocation. I’m not packing up to move to a bungalow two miles away. All the stress has got to be worth my while.

I remember feeling stressed when I moved here and nothing could have been easier. Piece by piece we brought things from my little house in Layton. Anything not needed stayed behind. Eventually that little house went on the market and was sold. I should have kept it and rented it out – hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Long before that, there was the escape from a nasty landlord. Nothing illegal, rent paid up to date, just a horrible, creepy man. All my worldly goods crammed into two cars, mine and my father’s.  It had to be done in a few hours to avoid confrontation. We managed. My things were stacked in Dad’s garage and I took up residence in his spare room. The stress involved here was waiting for my passport to come through the post, which it did, just in time, otherwise I would have had to go back. It was good to leave the key and no forwarding address.

This time I will leave a forwarding address, otherwise I’ll have no visitors and friends will always be welcome. Anyway, while I’m nervous, twitchy and trying to attempt a positive step forward into the unknown, I’ll just close my eyes and relax for a moment.

My poem:

The imagery behind closed eyes
Is of a quiet, peaceful scene.
Outside, the wint’ry, dark’ning skies
Hide the cosy, Crofter’s cottage.

A Heavenly place where I’m free,
It’s time to relax and return
To the open book on my knee
And glow from the log-burning stove.

By the window, my armchair,
With plumped up cushions and a throw.
A resting place, for moments rare,
Like now to bring me back to earth.

A momentary stress release,
A daydream of hope and wishes,
Until I’m rested and at ease,
Feeling ready for the next thing.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

From Russia - With Love

The ‘Beast from the East’ sent us a hint of snow to wake up to, here on the Fylde Coast.  A more substantial ‘white out’ further inland caused the closure of schools and brought transport to a full stop. Such extremes rarely reach us, but even so, I keep a well-stocked larder of tinned and packet food in case we can’t get out. I am the first to agree that this is hilarious, considering that there are two shops a very short walk away and we usually have our weekly groceries delivered. In my defence, I have explained to the mirthful ones that it isn’t only the weather I’m prepared for, but illness and disability as well, even though we live in a neighbourhood and not miles from anywhere in the far reaches of East Siberia.

I think I’d like to visit Siberia. I don’t know where it figures on the tourism market but it looks interesting.  First we’ll tackle Scotland next week. Hopefully it will be warmer than the -50 Celsius that Siberia has been experiencing.

When I was a child I picked up on things called ‘The Cold War’, ‘The Iron Curtain’ and ‘Eastern Bloc’. It was nothing to concern me, I was far too young to understand, but I was old enough to sense solemnity and worry myself about it to the point of nightmares which baffled my mother. It came from news bulletins, rather than adult conversations and affected me so much that I avoided having the news on as much as possible when my children were young.

Years ago, a work colleague was going on holiday to Moscow. She liked unusual places and always went on her own. It is fair comment that she wasn’t popular at work and those of us that had to put up with her hoped she might not be allowed back into the UK, the naivety of our youth. We didn’t get our wish, of course. She sent a postcard saying simply, ‘From Russia, with love’.

As a football fan, I hope that this summer brings something else home from Russia, the World Cup.

One of my favourite poems:

I Loved You (Ya Vas Lyubil)
I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know,
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

 

Alexander Pushkin, 1799-1837

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

Read More