One is hardly sleeping enough

Another remedy to try

A hot bath with Epsom salts and English mustard comes from the yet unwritten book of Brian' s remedies. He has similar ideas that I have sniffed at which might even work, but I am always a sceptic first until persuaded.

Beyond that, he has recommended chamomile tea; his advice is an earworm. However, when I think of chamomile, I think of a lotion, and the last time I applied it to soothe my skin was during an episode of shingles in June 2009.

Obviously, I need to find something to deal with insomnia; in fact, sleep seems to arrive at any time rather than at designated times for that activity. I use my weekends to catch up on all the sleep I could not get during the week.

Keeping awake doing

While I do not feel the same level of fatigue I had during and for the few months after radiotherapy, there is still a lot of tiredness that hits you in the middle of the day, no matter how much you try to stimulate yourself. With the lack of caffeine, you just depend on nature to stay alert and focused.

Then, in my waking hours deep into the witching hour, I cannot idle about; I just completed five difficult Sudoku puzzles, as if that would tire out my brain. Besides, nocturia is an issue too; whenever I get some sleep, I wake up to pass water, usually four times during the night. I have hit the litre mark a few times this week, and I do not drink as much water as Brian insists I should.

It will get better

I have made a few adjustments, like taking my pills earlier and resisting the urge to drink late into the evening, but I sometimes have a dry mouth, for which swilling cranberry juice might be too great a luxury if you do not swallow after you taste it. I used to drink sparkling water, but I stopped because fizzy drinks do not help urinary function after radiotherapy.

I hate still water, yet I find myself having a glass or two, but never as much as necessary. What I have avoided all along is medically induced sleep; however, the insomnia is a long- term side effect of radiotherapy. I know sleep will eventually come, but I must find ways to prevent this from ruining a productive day.

Chasing the forty winks away

I’m scared to slumber,
Fading in a moon’s penumbra,
If I care to remember,
The months since December.

For my mind to keep,
And recover by sleep,
All my counting of sheep,
Never got too deep.

In the dawning of Friday,
The clock that made me sway,
Dressed and on my way,
To work to make some pay.

Heavy my eyelids weigh,
Down over my eyes to stay,
Hard to nap as you now may,
For a bed on which to lay.

But for another few hours to go,
What things to keep blood aflow,
My face to have a glow,
Let’s be done it’s time to go.

Out of a tired brain,
A hopper of words like grain,
In order for prose to gain,
A reading free from pain.

Thought Picnic: Awake and asleep

Awake to my inner voice

It is not a too distant memory the holiday I had over a week ago in the sun. There was more strength in my legs that the 60 minute walk to the beach from my hotel in July was now done in just about 30.

The look was still the same, my feet well shod, enough of my body exposed to the sun whilst maintaining a modicum of decency, my cane, still comes in helpful and my Creative Zen Mosaic MP3 player in ghetto-blaster mode playing out in shuffle-mode my collection of classical music from Bach to Telemann and the almost 700 in between.

I cannot say why but when I read up on it is realised why, I start off with Johann Sebastian Bach Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme (Wake up, the voice calls to us), it is also my ring tone, it has an awakening for me, an uplifting and readiness for the journey I am about to embark on.

It is peaceful; it brings calm, the beginning of meditation as you enter the caverns of deep thought and introspection.

Asleep to the world around

The world is quiet in spite of the ambient noise, I am not wearing headphones but I hear nothing else, as I walk, my arms begin to conduct an imaginary orchestra anticipating the next chord ready to wield my baton towards the violinists, the roar of the percussionist is quelled and the wind instruments bring the cooling breeze to my face, I am in dreamland, a somnambulist with intent, mesmerised and oblivious, at one with myself.

The look out to sea is a look of wonder, the waves lapping the beach, a coast is a far as your imagination will allow and in the horizon is a speck brought to life by a pair of binoculars, a freighter of goods and supplies, part of what makes the world so small.

The sun bakes each side for minutes before the refuge of the shade is more pleasant, you are in a crowd of sun worshippers and yet one and you, beside none else.

Hours pass, the roar of the waves and the sound of the music have become too familiar to be noticed anymore, they are all in the background when it is time to walk back to my hotel.

The voyage on the sands

The undulating dunes of troughs and crests test each unsure stride that lands in shifting sands it is laborious and energy-sapping but all to the good, you have strength you never knew you had, in reserve and to expend, the longing for a journey’s end does not weary you as you catch the glimpse of shadows so long cast from the light of the setting sun.

We all return like from a wilderness to a land flowing with milk and honey, never a walk to be taken without flagons of refreshment, the voyage ends at the ports of concrete, respite is close and a shower to relieve.

Many a day took this rhythm; it was my comfort and my refreshment.