Thursday 4 February 2016

Night Symphony: Baba in Bedlam


Roarfooshirrrrrrriek! The dear man next to me has assumed his night-time persona.  A chimera of Darth Vader and Snuffleupagus, the CPAP’s ungodly suction and mechanical exhalation unnerve me. As I lay beside him in the dark, one of two arms clad in tightly laced black gauntlets rises ominously from the bed.  An index finger reaches out menacingly, but lands softly on his forehead where it traces soft circles on the skin – a vestige of childhood self-soothing.  I smile.

Earlier, as I watch him gear-up for bed I am thankful that a CPAP allows him to sleep peacefully without threat of heart attack from sleep apnea.  I am grateful that a simple rigid gauntlet that stops the wrist from flexing can prevent the numbness from his dubiously diagnosed ‘trigger thumbs’. However, as I watch him arm-up, empathy and gratitude are so nearly over-ridden by the urge to break into convulsive laughter.  It never gets old.  As he slides into sleep and the symphony begins, I wait to see whether my accumulated exhaustion will triumph over the physics of air moving through tubes...... Nope, not tonight.  

Having hauled my pillow to the spare room, the Black Beast on the bed huffs and growls at this clear breach of territory as he allows himself to be shoved to the wall.  Making a mental note to clarify my status as pack leader in the morning, I slide between the coolness of cotton and the warmth of duck down, and drift.

What is that noise? I open one eye to see The Beast observing me at close quarters. Head tilted in the canine version of WTF, he eyes me with a mixture of delight and trepidation.  A new game or a medical emergency? We stare at each other.  I hear it too.  Rice Krispies ....... whissssstle…. Rice Krispies.   It’s me.  The sound is, as above, the physics of air moving through tubes. I rise, mentally tracking the last known position of the inhaler.  Rifling through purse, swim bag, coat pocket and other likely spots, it surfaces eventually. OK. Lips and teeth around spout, big Darth inhale… squirt ... Wait….10-9-8-... Gasp.  And again. Climbing the stairs back to bed I shake my head with wonder at the quiet, still night outside the window.

20 minutes later my eyes open to bedlam.  The Beast, scrabbling Fred Flinstone style to find purchase on the slippery hardwood barks hysterically in 5 alarm fire mode. Nutty Little Rescue Dog joins the fracas.  I pause momentarily to wonder why we spend money on an alarm system. The cause of the current fiasco?  Piano Playing Cat.  On her way from piano bench to piano top she has traversed the last octave in a shrill call to arms. The Beast, infuriated by both broken slumber and the impudence of one of his charges, barrels down the stairs.  Animal Armageddon – there will be hell to pay.  Joined by their Second in Commands, they fight like proverbial cats and dogs: Hiss! Slap! Yelp! Snap! Yowl! Howl!  The blare of my bugle call for retreat sends them scattering, and they have returned to their corners, licked their wounds, and have fallen asleep long before I can again close my eyes.

3:00 a.m.  Too early to get up and make tea, I toss, turn, and eventually find myself starring down at Darth as he sleeps peacefully on his side, hands angel-like.  The mechanical racket of the CPAP has, by a miraculous manifestation of a merciful God, been transmuted into the sound of ocean waves. Shusssshhh and pull………shusssshhh and pull. I want to cry with relief. Climbing into bed behind him,  I wrap my arms around his warm middle, and sleep.


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