Sweet Dreams

Dark, cold rain coming down on a January night. I wake from nonsensical dream of coloring my hair and nails silver with a heartbreak of a movie about a missing child playing on the television and a cat asleep on either side of me. Just for a brief moment I have a sense of not quite knowing where I am and I have to stop and think what day it is and whether or not I have to go to work in the morning - then I remember, it's Saturday. The quick nap I decided to take at six has stretched past midnight and the dogs are anxious to be let outside. You can't ever make up sleep, my daddy used to tell me, But it's always fun to try. The dogs make a desperate and abbreviated foray into the backyard, I give them a treat, and then we all burrow back under the covers. The cats resume their places, Jack Lemmon and Sissy Spacek's search for their son ends tragically and a happy song and dance musical with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds follows. I recognize the lyrics of "Singin' in the Rain" and think how appropriate for such a night, then close my eyes and luxuriate in the thought that it's now Sunday and I can snooze another eight hours. Can't make up sleep, indeed, I think, just watch me.

When I open my eyes again, Gene and Debbie have tapdanced their way into the sunset and Esther Williams is a lovesick, singing mermaid. It's just before six am and I decide I can get away with another couple of hours. The next voice I hear is Edward G. Robinson in "Brother Orchid", a little known and tender hearted film about a reformed gangster hiding out in a community of monks. After fourteen hours of relatively uninterrupted sleep, I'm finally ready to get up and go. My daddy would be proud.

Later that day, I sit by my friend Henry's bed and read while he sleeps peacefully. It's been almost seven weeks since his stroke and his pain is still excruciating and chronic, his progress seems non existent at times - if he wakes while I'm there, all the better, but I will not interrupt his rest - this battered and gentle man is deep in depression and if there is any escape in sleep, he deserves it. The rehab center is busy and loud, televisions blare from every room - not the sweet old movies that lull me into sleep but modern day, blood and guts cop shows that shout with gunfire and car chases, chattering commercials for life insurance and mobility scooters, weight loss cures, bankruptcy. The only realism here is the suffering. I wonder if all this noise seeps through his sleep and into his dreams the way it does mine of if the pain drowns it out. Two hours pass and still he doesn't wake - I put my book aside and slip out.

As a refuge, sleep is a good place to go.