It seems like I have 4 kinds of moments in the wee hours of the night. Sleep interrupted.
- Manor moments: aka, the walls, they have ears. Our mystery (I wouldn’t know them if I fell on top of them) neighbors that live directly above us in apartment T4, lead a very, well ‘er, active late-night existence. Such ‘fiery devotion’ for each other; Oy how I fear Valentine’s Day! Usually the, uhhh dance, begins with some very loud and disruptive rap music. Rap music? Mind you, this is unsettling to us…Little and Big awaken and are scared. The , kaynahorah, she has a temper…and can bang and yell at the ceiling. The love shack above? They are very pleased with their musical selection, and let’s say, the shtupping begins. Mittendrinnen, the Mrs. is frantically searching Spotify, seeking a LOUD lullaby for the kinder. This to both mask the verbose, verboten vocabulary shared amongst the passionate paramours overhead and quash the questions der kinder may ponder as to what may be occurring. This we don’t need at 1-something am on a school night. A bei gezunt…they should live and be well!
- Shpilkas specials: These are those dreaded times when the bladder, she calls, and calls, and calls. And during at least one of these nightly treks, my brain awakens with whatever I fear most, at that very moment. Bills, pain, family, disease, work, politics, life, death–in any random order. So the brain, she keeps revving…the baggage under the eyes grows and morning sets in well before sleep. And, as they say, you can’t outrun the moon. I just get up and do. A bissel more sleep each night, I could hope for. But, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset.
- Points of Pain: The 2:12 am tap on the shoulder. Like I should be so lucky; it’s more a mad kick to the back of the head. My heart, it pounds like Poe’s Telltale Heart. I look over to the , to Little and Big, certain they will stir from the sound of this thumping. This flare up places my kishkas in over drive. At once, tiny beads of sweat form over my entire body. Neck mobility is gone. Every move hurts. The weight of my head on my shoulders is too much to bear; yet somehow, I must make it to the bathroom. Everything inside my body wants to escape the pain in any way it can. North. South. Usually both. No medicine stops it. I reach for my remote control (occipital stimulator) and increase the velocity of my bionics. I’m pleading with the pain to lessen. It’s my “Please, no…please, no” dance. (For laypeople without chronic pain, imagine the dance you do when you use someone’s toilet and it’s about to overflow. That’s the best I can do…) Will I make it through this episode? Will the meds work? Will I be horizontal and dehydrated for days? Will I miss work? Miss life? How much time will I not get back. I may speak a lot of Yiddish, but for me, I get no comfort from prayer. My iPhone-G has no connection.
- Kinder Naches: Little and Big, they still sleep with us. Don’t get me started on sleep, or lack there of…it’s the mantra of parenthood. But sometimes, I wake up in the night and just observe the quiet beauty of the kinder and the I hear the faint sounds of their breath, see the expressions on their faces; realize the joy I take in from these three. My muses. It’s a mitzvah. I lay back down. I smile. I sleep again. Clearly, this is my very favorite of the foursome.
Someday, I’ll have a good night’s sleep. But for now, there’s plenty to do in the waking hours. Moments of good health, moments of not so much. Here’s to a great day!
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