Sleep War

My dog Baxter is a sleep meister. He can sleep anywhere at any time. Dogs need a lot of sleep. Some experts say as much as eighteen, even twenty, hours a day. Baxter is exceptionally good at getting his. Not me. For most of my life, I’ve waged sleep war. My struggle is getting to bed at a reasonable hour. I fight to stay awake, determined to do just a little more of whatever I’m doing: jerking my head up when it droops, forcing my eyes open when they shut, stifling my yawns. The saving grace is, once the lights are off and my head hits the pillow, I’m out and can stay that way…most of the time.

A few nights ago, sleep wouldn’t come. I went to bed around 11:00 and did what I always do: read until my eyes refuse to stay open and turned off the light. But instead of sliding into velvety unconsciousness, I sagged. The seed of a story had begun to spin in my head. Usually, I grab a pen and write it down, but it was late; I was tired. Telling myself stories before sleep is something I’ve done all my life. When I was little, they involved a heroic girl on an adventure. To make the stories fair, the characters always had issues: a broken leg, a bad temper, a horrible secret.

Anyway, that night, sleep remained elusive. My mind wouldn’t shut up, and I was left with the worst of outcomes: no story and no sleep.

Around 1:30, I got up and drank a glass of water. Wandering around the kitchen, I remembered a package of sleep aid mushroom gummies. I’d bought them at the urging of a stranger in Whole Foods who’d enlisted my help to find them. She was funny and reminded me of an old friend who’d passed several years ago. As she burbled on about her husband being a brilliant doctor who said this sleep aid was safe, I found it. She thanked me profusely, grabbed two packets of Wonder Sleep for herself—they were on sale—and thrust a third into my hand, saying, “You have to try these, they really work.” So I bought them.

Here’s the thing: I hate drugs to make me sleep. In my experience, there’s always a price. After my mother died, a doctor gave me sleeping pills. Taking them, I never felt as if I got a real night’s sleep, but since I wasn’t sleeping at all, it was better than nothing. Whenever I stopped the pills, it took several nights before I could sleep on my own again.

Wonder Sleep’s directions said to take two, so I did, and then worried I’d been hasty. What if I had an allergic reaction? It’s not crazy. Recently, my face was covered in a rash from a sunscreen my seriously-excellent-dermatologist suggested. And then there’s the current pollen-fest that makes every morning an ode to sneezing and watery eyes. I won’t bore you with food allergies. Suffice it to say, milk and gluten are off limits, which is a total pain if anyone asks you to dinner—ridiculously embarrassing—not to mention all those jokes about gluten. Anyway, by 2:00 AM, I was fantasizing that my throat would close and I’d suffocate without anyone being the wiser. What do you do if you’ve ingested two mushroom gummies and change your mind? Drink a lot of water? But if you aren’t allergic, and they do work, won’t your bladder be waking you in an hour? I could feel something happening and didn’t trust it, so I remained sitting up in bed, practicing swallowing, while reading an Ursula K. Le Guin story. At some point, I decided it probably wasn’t my night to die—or if it was, there was nothing I could do about it—so turned off the light and slept for five hours. Not bad, all things considered, and there was no lingering drowsiness. The funny lady from Whole Foods was right; her mushroom gummies worked.

Sleep and I have something of a history. My grandmother used to say, when I was a baby, Mom had me sleeping so much, no one knew what I looked like. As a toddler, I refused to nap. Reaching school age, I was mortified in summer to be sent to bed when it was still light. The neighborhood kids would stand outside my window and wave. And what about that terrifying children’s prayer? An embroidered sampler of it hung over my bed. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take. Not comforting.

Baxter, of course, has no such issues. After jumping on my bed and messing with the pillows—a new thing that makes him happy—he hops off feeling exceptionally pleased with himself, curls up in his little house (a wire dog crate padded with blankets), and is off to dreamland. He talks in his sleep.