|Enlisted men, exhausted after more than 24 hours at general quarters, sleep in tangled patterns aboard the USS Lexington (CV-16). (Source)|
Okay, I get it, I'm 62 years old and I'm resigned to having to get up two or three times in an 8-hour period to, ya know, do my bidness. Now before y'all start getting all excited about prostates and all that, be advised that that particular piece of equipment has been examined and been declared functional. Old, but functional if'n you catch my meaning.
Now my surgery back at the end of July involved the doc cutting out a rather sizable chunk of my plumbing. While the exterior incisions, cuts and holes have healed, the insides are still what you might call "sore." We're not talking intense pain, we're not even talking mild pain, what we're talking here is uncomfortable and then only mildly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the point of, I roll over into a particular position during the night and it wakes me up. One of those, "Ouch, that hurt. Sort of." Not enough to warrant medical attention but enough to interrupt my sleep.
So I really am "sleeping like a baby." Waking up every two hours and fussing until I'm comfortable again. Who coined that phrase anyway? I want names damn it, someone has some 'splainin' to do!
I'm getting roughly six hours of sleep a night, while waking up every two hours. I swear, you could set your freaking watch to my nightly bouts of "Ouch, can't stay in that position!" Another bummer is that I can't just stay in bed for twelve hours and log a "solid" eight hours of sleep that way.
For you see The Missus Herself is once again "forward deployed" to the California Area of Operations, (the CAO) for to assist The WSO in her postpartum activities. She's there because Big Time is at sea and well, one five-year old human, one newborn human and one puppy require a lot of care and feeding. Not to mention which that The WSO had to have surgery herself right after delivering herself of the latest addition to the tribe. So she's PMC herself.
With the better half out in the CAO, it is left to me to perform all manner of stuff to which I am not accustomed. Like getting up early on Saturday. I hate getting up early on Saturday. However, the feline units assigned to our outfit expect their breakfast at a certain time each day. During the week it's not a problem, I have to get up and go to work at an ungodly hour anyway, so I feed the cats and they are pleased.
I have tried, in vain, to convince them that sleeping in on Saturday is a good thing, a righteous thing, a wondrous thing, but they are cats, what's more they are female cats. Our old male cats got used to eating later on Saturday than the rest of the week. The ladies? They're not having it. Too much of the early bird catches the worm in those two. (Or perhaps it's the early cat catches the bird. I dunno, philosophical matters ain't my bailiwick.)
"It is zero-six-hundred hours and we see that breakfast has NOT been served. We don't care that it's Saturday. Breakfast, by law, is served at zero-six-hundred hours, without fail." So sayeth the cats. (Cat haters, hold your water and your snide anti-cat comments. I am a cat person and cannot abide a cat hater. Well, I suppose I can but I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you.)
So on Saturday I get up and feed the furry set, then it's back to bed.
Only to be awakened at zero-eight-hundred hours by the alpha cat who likes to sleep in my spot on the bed. This is new behavior and I can't say that I enjoy it. But as I can't get back to sleep anyway, I will generally drag my tired old derrière out of my rack and face the day with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.
While I stumble about the abode I note that both felines have gone back to sleep. I could chastise them for that but no doubt they would point out that they, as cats, are nocturnal, and I, as a human, am diurnal. I did try to debate that point with them as I spent many years as a night shift guy in Uncle Sam's Aerial Circus but they would no doubt point to the thousands of years of evolution, blah, blah, blah.
Besides which, they would point out that they were "up all night" in pursuit of their prey.
"What prey?" I ask them.
"Why mice of course!" They would answer.
No doubt I would point out that, "there hasn't been a mouse in this house in five years!" Then they would, no doubt, ask why did I think that was the case. Did I think the mice moved somewhere else? Mais non! Sasha, the alpha cat would remind me of the time I went into the basement to find three, yes three, dead mice all lined up nice and perfect as if for an inspection. Anya (who isn't much of a hunter to tell the truth) would argue that she provided moral support to Sasha. Oh yes, what mice? They would ask.
But I digress.
I'm tired. Monday night was particularly brutal. Perhaps once a month my brain will decide that sleep is much overrated and therefore is not to be had. I will lie abed, gazing wistfully at the clock, as the night deepens, as the hours until dawn are no longer far away but have arrived and I can almost imagine the cockerel's crow in the wee hours. It is at that point that I actually fall asleep only to have the alarm blaring not 20 minutes later.
Tired? Why yes, yes I am. Thank you for asking.
A friend suggested a medicinal solution, I pointed out that after reading When Thunder Rolled in which Ed Rasimus (Thunderchief pilot extraordinaire) once took a sleeping pill given to him by his flight doc put me off from sleeping assistance forever. Raz described being in bed and feeling his extremities go numb, bit by bit, and then wondering what would happen if his hooch suddenly began to burn. Being paralyzed and not being able to escape the flames did not sound like a desirable thing. Yeah, no thanks!
Besides which, I just don't like taking pills.
Sigh. One of these days I will get some sleep, a good night's rest as it were. It is my goal, it is my dream. Ah, but to dream one needs to be asleep. It'll happen, I have faith.
Until then, I wonder what's on the late, late show.
To quote the melancholy Dane: To sleep: perchance to dream...