Richie’s television went on
Thursday afternoon and stayed on through Friday morning. Understanding fellow
that I am, I did not say anything. Richie was leaving Friday morning for a
three-week visit with his son. One night of TV-induced fitful sleep
interspersed with periods of no sleep at all was bearable, knowing it would be
followed by nearly a month of blissful silence. Unfortunately, blissful silence
did not follow.
Friday night the television
droned on and on and was louder than the night before. William was the culprit.
He often watches Buddy, Richie’s bulldog, when Richie is away. Ten minutes
after midnight, I called the desk to lodge a complaint. Moments later, there
was a knock on Richie’s door, and a voice said, “Please turn your TV down.
We’ve had a complaint.” If there was a reply, I didn’t hear it, and if the
volume was lowered, it wasn’t lowered much. OK, around two o’clock the decibel
level did go down, although it remained high enough to be heard in my room. But
I was able to sleep for a couple hours, and when I woke up at five-thirty the
TV was still on.
I saw William Saturday and
asked him to turn the television off or way down by ten, or before he passed
out, whichever came first. William
huffed and puffed in the manner of a spoiled eight-year-old. “I’m not staying
in Richie’s room. I leave the TV on for the dog.” “Leave it on all day. I don’t
care, but turn it off at night,” I told him. He huffed and puffed a little more
and left. He returned quickly to tell me he’d turned off the TV and it would
stay off. At least so far, William has been true to his word.
Sleeping has been a challenge
in recent months even without a noisy television next door. It used to be, I was
in bed by eight-thirty and up and at ’em, sort of, at four or four-thirty. These
days, I’m going to bed later and getting up earlier.
Falling asleep is never a
problem. Staying asleep for seven or eight hours is. I crawl into bed at ten, fall
asleep, wake up feeling good, squint to see what time it is and discover
midnight is still half an hour away. I lie there and try to drift off again,
usually without success. There are many mornings when I get out of bed at
two-thirty or three. I don’t accomplish much in the wee hours, and I’m too
tired to do much in the unwee hours.
I woke up at one-thirty this
morning and gave up trying to get back to sleep just after four. I should have
given up sooner. In the quiet of the night, I was alone with my thoughts, which
were not pleasant company.
There are nights when I lie
awake and fill my head with thoughts of movies with plucky, indefatigable
heroes. You know, the guy who has a disease or injury that severely limits what
he can do. But he keeps on keeping on, smiling in the face of adversity,
refusing to give in to his misfortune, finding fulfillment while inspiring
others with his limitless determination. Just thinking of those movies often
inspires me. However, there are times, and those times are becoming more frequent,
when just thinking of feel-good flicks of that ilk inspires me to yell “horse
shit!” Last night was one of those times.
What was my problem last night? I got a new brace
for my left foot last week. My left ankle is weak. When I stand or try to take
a step or two, it gives way and I end up standing on my right foot and the
outside edge of my left foot. The brace is to help keep my left foot flat on
the ground. I was hoping it would make it possible to take more than three or
four steps. While it hasn’t done that, at least yet, it has made some things
better. When the shoe with the brace comes off, the ankle does a better job of
keeping the foot in place for a few minutes, making it easier to get in and out
of the shower.
The problem is, the brace
consists of two metal bars that are attached to the heel and extend to just
below my knee, and several straps to keep the brace in place once I get the
shoe on. Getting the shoe on, aye, there is the rub. My left leg is an
uncooperative lout, and the foot is no better. It is no easy task guiding my toes
and foot around the hardware and into the shoe without knocking it over or
shoving the tongue in ahead of my pedal extremity. Saturday morning it took
fifteen minutes to get the damn thing on.
What’s worse, the new
challenges aren’t the only challenges. So many tasks I once did without
thinking now require both thought and patience. I was never much good at
thought. I do a lot of it, however, in the middle of the night. All too often I think about my waning abilities. What will life be like, I wonder, when I need someone to do all those things I used to do and never even thought about them as I did them. That day is coming. I don't know when, but even if that day is ten years away, it will be too soon for me. And at night I worry about it.
On the bright side: for the
last two weeks my bowels have been operating in a more regular fashion than
they have in six or seven years. Maybe, better days are coming. Or maybe it’s
all a bunch of crap.
Memories were failing even as
we ate this evening. In the ten minutes between giving her order to Amy and Amy
setting her dinner in front of her, Marianne asked, “Did she take my order
yet?” at least five times. When the table next to us was served, Leila looked
at her plate and then at Burt’s. “You’ve got chicken, and I’ve got beef,” she
said. “Did I order beef? I guess I must have.”
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