I don’t sleep like I used to. It’s not my typical insomnia of hours to fall asleep (though that happens, too). It’s restless night after restless night, many of them with hours of being awake while the rest of the country sleeps. It’s night after night of facing those middle-of-the-night thoughts. I hate those middle-of-the-night thoughts. I know not to take them too seriously. Know that everything feels darker in middle-of-the-night darkness. And yet, dark they (the thoughts) continue to be. Dark and heavy and bleak and stressful and sad.
They are not the inspiring, “What will I do with my one wild and precious life?” thoughts. They are the daunting and hopeless, “What will I do with my one wild and precious life?” thoughts. (On a brighter side, I laughed out loud this morning as I read what this writer had to say about her insomniac thinking.)
Earlier this week, I spent the night in a hotel room with 3 of my dear friends while 8 of our children slept in hotel beds next door. I went to bed joyful about our April break getaway—emotionally filled up by watching our kids thrill over the adventure; filled up by talking for hours on hotel beds with girlfriends. In the morning, I got out of bed joyful about the day ahead—more hours of thrilling adventure; more time with girlfriends. So why, with joy on each end, does the middle-of-the-night still bring such suffering? Why, on this particular night, did I spend hours listening to the rain outside and the heavy breathing inside and the incessant voice in my head bringing up one dark thought after the next? Some detail about work: how did I not realize until now what I should have done but did not do? A changed friendship: would we ever get back to what seems lost? My upcoming surgery… and panic panic panic about everything having to do with that.
I spent this middle of the night thinking about this article and this blog post about the medical and emotional travails of reconstruction. About what feels like the looming loss of my body and of my comfort (again, physical; emotional). About what feels like a looming turning point that will forever divide my life into “before surgery” and “after surgery.”
“Before cancer” and “after cancer” carry a very different kind of significance, by the way. I was telling someone recently that though I would never have chosen breast cancer, neither would I wish it away at this point. There has been so much learning and growing and opening that I wouldn’t want to miss out on.
I do, however, wish this surgery weren’t happening. Will I feel differently somewhere on the other side? Will there be new learning and growing and opening that I am happy to receive in exchange for my breast?
I had expected the sleep to get easier on the other side of chemo. Had hoped that restful nights would seep back in just as the fatigue seeped out. (And the fatigue has seeped out! Two weeks ago, I never would have managed that 31-hour wonderful whirlwind getaway with 3 girlfriends and 8 children!) But last week, my oncologist said that no, my sleep issues are not because of the chemo—not the kind of direct result, anyway, that will improve now that the drugs are leaving my system. Rather, my sleep issues are a result of my chemo-induced menopause, and hence they are symptoms that just may stick around. (For the rest of my life? I am becoming my mother in ways I would rather not become my mother.)
Back from my 31 hours April break getaway, I did not wake up in a hotel room with friends, and perhaps that is why I woke up feeling sad. Because there was no immediate distraction to shake off the middle of the night. Though I did sleep more, I also dreamed of men with guns taking over my village. I dreamed what I used to dream again and again as a child but haven’t dreamed for years—of trying (desperately trying, such panic and fear) to find a safe corner to hide. Of never finding a safe corner to hide.
Am I hiding from the middle of the night? From my upcoming surgery? From some corner of myself? Am I hiding because these days, I struggle to answer that question: “What will I do with my one wild and precious [work] life?” When I find a way to live my passion, will I also find my safety—and maybe even a restful night of sleep?