sleep no more

regrettably not a reference to the experimental theater production

Some collected reflections on sleep from the past few months.

It’s really hard when you’re a parent of young children not to resent your partner’s sleep. No matter how much one resists scorekeeping in a relationship, sleep is a treasured commodity and it’s impossible not to notice when one partner is consistently responding to cries in the night, and waking up with the early riser.

At least that’s true for me. I’m sure plenty of you are much more highly evolved and generous in prioritizing your partner’s rest. I am stingy with my need for sleep, and I guard it jealously.

And right now¹ I am getting A LOT of sleep. Luke is doing everything. He is tired.

I assume he is bitter and resentful about this, as I know I would be. He claims otherwise, but surely no one is that pure of heart.

There is a dramatically uneven distribution of domestic labor in my household. My husband does everything while I rot in bed. He also does all the wage-earning labor outside the home. It’s not fair.

He was offered a promotion at the same time I was diagnosed with cancer, and is now burning the candle at both ends. He gets to work late after doing the morning routine and school drop-off, and leaves work early to pick Violet up from her after-school playdates. Then after bedtime he works from home until midnight.

After that he cleans the kitchen.

You look tired.

During radiation, especially towards the end, people keep commenting on how tired I look. I’m workshopping my responses to this, because it’s not at all clear to me what I am supposed to say.

• “You look tired.” Well thanks for basically telling me I look like shit. Also, you’re right, I am.

• “You look tired.” Well spotted.

• “You look tired.” Then I look better than I feel!

• “You look tired.” Looks can be deceiving. But in this case they’re not.

A night owl

I go to yoga one night a few weeks into treatment and when I leave, the evening light stirs something inside of me and I feel myself waking up. This night-owl tendency is a genetic chronotype—not something I can change through willpower any more than I could change my eye color or my height.

You don’t believe me? Trust me, I have tried. Life has tried. Our systems are not designed for night people. Waking up early is considered virtuous, and school and work schedules are crafted accordingly. No matter how much early morning sunlight I get or exercise during the day or attempts to block blue light in the evening or to go to bed early, I will unfailingly reach peak alertness in the evening.

My brain fires best at night. During the day it is sluggish.

I can fall asleep easily at 11AM, full sunlight, loud noises, sitting on a couch, on a bench, on a plane, on a train, at a desk, in a car, anywhere.

At 11PM, I will lie awake for hours, tossing and turning, and require a sleep mask, headphones, and the perfect pillows—for my head and between my knees—to even stand a chance at sleeping.

It’s just how I’m built: not for this world.

Radiation and its attendant naps are only reinforcing my natural predisposition. I’m able to sleep in thanks to Luke handling Violet’s morning routine and my in-laws taking Sylvie. So I do.

I also get into the habit of taking a nap after radiation, or after my post-radiation soak in the bath. I wake from these naps uncertain of the day—or is it night? I might have napped for twenty minutes of four hours, I’m truly uncertain.

All this nourishing daytime sleep leaves me wide awake at night. A negative feedback loop.

This is compounded by the mini menopause I’m experiencing. Night sweats and hot flashes have me tangled in my sheets. And they’re worse at night, which the internet confirms is due to natural hormonal fluctuations and something related to the hypothalamus.

Also stress can trigger hot flashes—great. So lying awake thinking about cancer makes it worse.

I can’t sleep at night. And I can’t stay awake during the day.

I stop using my C-PAP machine. My sleep doctor gives me permission—he says I have bigger fish to fry right now while I deal with radiation and that my apnea is not so severe that I’m going to die in my sleep tomorrow.

The machine is mine, so we can revisit it down the road when I have less going on.

This helps my sleep situation somewhat, though now I’m regularly dodging calls from the Priceright medical equipment department.

Dreams

I’ve been having crazy nap dreams.² That’s one thing I disliked about the C-PAP—I never had dreams while using it.

Maybe that says something about the relationship between oxygen deprivation and dreams. I don’t know. There’s so little we understand about sleep and dreams.

But today’s dream was about birds. Violet and Sylvie were birds, and Violet had her own baby bird. We were trying to go to my grandma’s funeral. I got in a fight with my mom before we got in the car to drive down. She was criticizing my craft projects. She threw away my cigarettes (I don’t smoke). When we reached our destination everyone was racing to divvy up my grandma’s things. She had a vast collection of robes (this is not true) and all the female cousins got one except for me. Then I shit my pants and was hiding in the bathroom, waiting for someone to come by so I could ask them to get my bag for me instead of having to walk past all my male relatives in a t-shirt and no pants.

I keep dreaming about pooping in public. Having a dirty diaper.

You don’t have to be much of a Freudian to interpret that one. (It’s about my constant diarrhea, you see.)

I’ve learned that when I wake up from a poop dream that’s a decent sign that I actually need to go, and not my overstimulated rectal neurons sending my body confused messages.

In addition to the night sweats I get itchy from the pain killers I start taking at night towards the end of radiation.

When I tell the nurse practitioner about my sleep struggles during one of our weekly check-ins, she advises me to skip naps to build up more “sleep pressure” so that I’ll be able to sleep at night. As if I haven’t tried this. As if this isn’t an affliction that has plagued me literally my entire life.

But sure. I’m sure it’ll work this time.

Now I’ve added a two pound bag of chemo drugs and a needle in my chest and the paranoia that I’ll wrap myself in the tube or yank it out in my sleep to my list of sleep complaints.

The first night sleeping with the pump is a struggle. When I toss and turn I need to remember to move the bag, to make sure the tube isn’t tangled with my blankets. I’m worried that it will fall off the bed if I fall asleep and yank something loose.

Not me with the 3AM googles. Heartburn with a pump? I want to know.

My cat jumps on my chest, wanting to snuggle, and I stroke him a few times before I shove him away, worried he’ll begin playing with the tubing.

Unisom no longer touches my insomnia. Not even close. And I can’t toss and turn comfortably because of the aforementioned tube struggles. My leg is restless. The hot and cold flashes persist. My throat hurts. I wonder every time my scalp itches if my hair will start falling out soon.

I get up to pee and nearly forget to bring the InfuSystem with me.

The first night with the pump sucks. Lying on my right side, as I usually do, is uncomfortable due to the needle in my chest. I spend more of the night awake than asleep.

The second night is better, though. Hopefully it will continue to improve as I get used to it.

1. Written during radiation

2. One of my friends has informed me there is nothing more boring than listening to a description of someone else’s dreams. Fair. Feel free to skip.