Restless Legs Syndrome

Photo by Sarah J.L. Nguyen

Being up at night, all night, every night, 
is worse than lonely.
It robs me of waking to bright mornings that promise warm days,
and chilly mornings served with snow. 
Neither am I able to appreciate being sopped in by dark clouds 
that bring rain and time for reading.
I forget there is an audible quiet space just outside my ears 
when my body is rested. 
Looking forward to things becomes impossible
because I am shrouded in fatigue.
Calendars and clocks are faceless.
Battling through the shroud to actually accomplish some small task 
lands me in a thicket of raw nerves, short temper and pain.
Spill the cereal, discover ants in the trash can, find a knot in my shoestring
and verbally I obliterate Sodom and Gomorrah twice over.
Then I stub my toe and our pets hide for hours.
What I did a couple of days ago, recent conversations, important conversations are gone.  I am
certain I have not taken medications and I overdose. 
I rely on my spouse to help me distinguish between what must be a dream
and what must have been reality.
I watch him grow more exhausted each day and wonder whether my condition is
shortening his life.
Fortunately, trudging the 327 steps to get from the end of our front walkway to the lamppost
at the top of the hill is a buy-one, get-one-of-greater-value experience.
Purchased: even though my uphill climb is driven by the insanity of an
exhausted body equipped with a brain that persists in ordering it to walk,
fresh air on my face keeps me from actually going insane.
And Free: standing by this lamppost I am unable to wake my spouse—he sleeps. A small
victory I will hold onto until the urge to wake him passes.
Night after night inside our home I grow more angry, more fatigued, more fearful,
more fragile. I injure my fist pounding it into what I only thought was sufficient padding. 
My grandmother experienced this with no name for it, no medicines to temper it
and even taking medications that made it worse. 
She fueled it with caffeine because she didn’t know any better. 
However did she manage to teach me the Charleston, to sew dresses for me,
to coax our big, new, shy dog from the car when we brought him home from the pound,
to have the wisdom to tell my mother not to pick so much and let me be me?
Being up at night, all night, every night,
is not as bad for me as it was for my grandmother.
I have a name for the condition we share, medications to treat it,
a stubborn, confident, intelligent, skeptical husband as an advocate,
friends who reach out by email, silly cat cards and home-grown muscadines.
The medications are kicking in and this morning I reacquainted myself with that quiet space
just outside my ears, because for a couple of hours, my body felt rested.