The past two weeks since my dad’s brain surgery has taught me many things. Reminded me of many more and focussed me on celebrating the everyday. I have no doubt this new learning will make it’s way into my posts over the next months, so I am not going to even try to distill any of it here. But for one thing: the power of sleep.
I know that if I am ever the subject of interrogation, no torture will be needed. Two short nights of little or no sleep and I’ll spill the beans. I need eight straight if possible. It’s my best beauty treatment – and for mood maintenance – sleep over anything else will get my serotonin balanced and my outlook clear.
I saw it with my dad when we took him out of ICU and it’s 24-hour circadian-rhythm busting routine. When we got him downstairs to a room of his own and tucked up tight and one of us slept in the chair beside him all night. The ICU kicked him as hard as the haemorrhage did. We thought he wouldn’t get better, he was going backwards so fast. But sleep and reassurance, exercise and sleep, visitors and laughter and sleep – did the job. (And yes, I know the drugs helped.)
By the time you read this, I will be back in my own bed. With Jack curled in the curve of my stomach, my own pillow and linen against my skin. The light and breeze in the room will be just right, my pint glass of water will be next to my bed and the train that thunders past our house won’t even register. I will be asleep.
(Information on image provided by Psychology Degree.net. Design by Ellie Koenig. Images found in the public domain. Image of dog in the public domain. This post was not sponsored in any way.)