Friday, July 24, 2015

Dreams of sleep

I get worried 
when my husband reports only sleeping six 
or seven hours a night.
I'm a hypocrite.

I spent five hours with him today,
instead of my average—eight.
We did physical therapy together,
took a walk to the local Gandolfo's for lunch,
visited Pioneer Day festivities in the park down the street,
joked around in the shower room bathroom while Mr. PNU sat on the commode,
ate ice cream in bed and shared stories about our Mormon ancestors,
cried over how hard stroke is on both of us,
cuddled, 
and then I begged need for sleep.

 I've been back home in bed, since 4:30 p.m., needing sleep, but not sleeping. 
It's now 7:49 p.m.
I'm trying to forgive myself for exhaustion, 
like it's some kind of horrific sin, 
or a glaring manifestation of my inherent inadequacy
at being wife and support to my husband.


I lay here,
so very tired,
and I don't sleep.

If I take five milligrams of melatonin now
I may get a full eight hours for once
instead of six, or four,
or three.
You know, all of those common sleep numbers.

Caregiving isn't a thing I resent, ever.
My present lack of sleep and total inability to do anything 
without feeling the urge to cry 
is another matter entirely.

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