Posted on Saturday, September 29, 2012
So there we were in hospital again last week, nothing serious, just a sleep assessment.
Sleep-ful wide-open mouth, Laughingboy has always been a noisy dozer. There’s a strange mechanic though behind his nose somewhere lost in the darkness that stops his flow of snoring air sometimes. A deep snore halts suddenly and creates a pregnant pause…
…it’s a pause that lasts only a few seconds but that’s mountain years for me. I stand by him chanting ‘breathe!’ in my head until his awareness kicks in and shocks him into gasping.
He finds it hard to fall into deep sleep, because of that. Frustrating cycles of falling and waking, falling and waking. I’ve learned to be aware on some level even as I sleep myself. Instinct wakes me sometimes, I wander in a haze to Laughingboy’s room some nights and find him choking. I fluff his pillows, watch him doze, and wonder.
So there he was…
Flick ze sviiiiitch!!!
… all wired up and loving life. He was such a trooper what with all those people invading his personal bubble causing him to itch and make for bumpy sleeps. All that sticky would’ve driven me mental.
I was loving life too. Peaceful room with soothing walls and quiet bleeps in distant places, I had booty from the snack machine and a good book and a chair that was almost comfortable… it made for a nice holiday of sorts.
Bent and stretched from too many chapters I leaned forward and noticed the glitter.
It sparkled from angles, I bent and rolled and admired the rainbows and it made me think of sick children, minus tonsils, running fevers, fear of needles. The sparkles were like a ghost in the room, a happy child who’s mind is taken away from its troubles, the effort a nurse makes to help a helpless kid. I couldn’t pick the glitter up on the pads of my fingers though, they were bet in to the linoleum concentrated mainly around the bed. Sparkles over the years, enemy to the mop. They were beautiful.
And the motors of machines droned, and distant stations beeped quietly and I marked my page and gave up on words.
The plunk of leather on lino echoed, and woke poor Laughingboy. He held out his hand and I grasped it and we fell asleep. I wonder if his machine found that moment, if it registered as a spike and mapped his comfort, lines falling slowly downward into stories of fantasy worlds.