When Sleep May Come

During the greater part of my life I did not think very much about sleep. I just slept. At the close of any day, I would change—sometimes at the direction order of my parents—into nightwear, wash the day off of my face, brush my teeth, get into my bed, lay my head upon my pillow, close my eyes and sleep until morning After I learned to read I would take the book to bed, prop up some support for my body and read. My parents never entered my bedroom to tell me to put the book away and go to sleep. At some point during the reading, my eyes would dim; my mind would fog and I would gently place the bookmark at the page I had reached, turn off the bed side light, put the book atop the headboard and rest my head gently on the pillow. As if by magic it would be morning save for the occasional nightmare. No sleep aids, anxiety medications, aspirins for the day’s efforts: just sleep into which I would unthinkingly drift. I did not think about sleep, did not feel anxious regarding it; did not worry that I would not sleep. I just fell asleep. 

Now I am old and sleep has become a more complicated event and fraught with its own anxieties. On the bedside table I place my night medications: I split the trazodone tablet in half, take the first half to let me sleep and reserve the other half for when I awaken in the middle of the night and cannot return to sleep. On the bedside table are two acetaminophen tablets for the ache of my trigeminal neuralgia and a glass of water to get the tablets down. Also by the bedside shelf sits a box of tissues, lip balm, a case for my glasses; reading material I will store in what Levenger’s refers to as a reader’s toolbox. It is filled with more than is ever necessary in the moment . . . books, periodicals, pens and my journal . . . who knows what might be required during the day or night? I keep the toolbox placed by the bed in case sleep does not come and I lay awake. I worry about tomorrow. But on a good night I drop the book or journal of the moment into the slot of the reader’s toolbox reserved for it. Then I pull a pillow which has been designated as a cushion for my knees—I am a side sleeper—to prevent a painful ache that I would suffer in the morning as a consequence of one knee having rested heavily upon the other as I sleep in a semi-fetal position. I haven’t the slightest idea what causes this discomfort but I tend to blame most of such issues to the process of aging. Somewhere I read that aging is not a tragedy; it is a farce!

Having set a conducive environment for sleep and tossed aside the pillow that has supported me while I read, I settle down under the covers with my head on the remaining pillow. I toss and turn restlessly searching for the perfect sleep position for the moment. Sometimes, I have forgotten to use the bathroom before bedtime and so I have to reverse the routine, rise up and attend to my body’s demands, then return and repeat the bedtime routine, this time without the support pillows for reading, though I may require five minutes of reading something to calm me again from the exertions resulting from the journey to the bathroom. I do this added reading in a mostly supine position holding the material up toward the ceiling. I have already swallowed my tablets of sleep aids but they are not quick acting nor always effective, but I again lay my head upon my pillow but still require something to calm my mind. I sing to myself from a repertoire of often imperfectly remembered songs. On a good night I might finish one selection and get midway through a second before I slip into unconscious sleep, certainly to dream. My dreams are consistent but this is not the venue for their narration or interpretation. 

I awaken during the night more often than I would like—from dreams and bodily needs—and at some point worried that I will not fall back asleep, I take the second half of the trazodone and pull out the playlist for my encore. I sing unvocalized a selection I might remember but hope will not complete. Eventually I fall back asleep but awaken too early when the sky is still dark and even the nearby airport is quiet. I plan the time for a nap.

Maybe the innocence of childhood renders sleep invisible; sleep just was and did not require further thought. Without consciousness of or much bother about it, sleep often lasted through the night. It required no aids or counting sheep or singing sotto voce. I know that there are children whose innocence has been stolen from them, and I don’t know how sleep appears to them. But for me now, an admittedly privileged older man, sleep is a complicated event for which complexities and evasions I had not prepared. In any case, I go to bed too early and awaken too soon. The idea of sleep rests heavy on my mind the way it never did in my childhood or my youth, but as I aged sleep became a matter I might obsess about, trouble my self and my partner about and render the event too visible and thereby less accessible. In Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead the Reverend Ames who has heard a great many confessions says, “There is a lot under the surface of life, everyone knows that. A lot of malice and dread and guilt, and so much loneliness, where you really would expect to find it either.” Life often troubles my days and keeps me up at night.