The importance of being grateful

This morning, the first thing I did, before showering, dressing or eating breakfast, was collect up some odds and ends of laundry and take them through to the kitchen for a washing. I fell twice on the way – it was like something out of an Ealing comedy – crumpling my left foot painfully and stubbing it on the door. I yelped and cursed and felt much better. I do sometimes wish I knew why these things happen. Is that “instant karma” because I was impatient with Eddie last night? Perhaps.

Eddie often wears a mask at night to help with his breathing and sleeping. It is supposed to sit snuggly over the face, but lately it has been fitted so slackly that I can reach the whole of my hand beneath the straps at the back of his head. All the mask does lately is make a wheezing racket and blow cold air in my direction. Perhaps it has sleep apnoea and could do with my help.

I have my own collection of aches and pains – sore feet, aching knees and a stiff shoulder and neck, for which I have found deep sleep is the best remedy. When I am kept awake for hours at a time by the noise beside me, all the meditation and mindfulness in the world cannot make up for the loss of dreaming oblivion which I find such a comfort. I wonder what the department of sleep medicine would make of our predicament: Eddie’s sleep mask does help with his breathing and because he is less exhausted, he is in a better frame of mind these days. But he also finds it uncomfortable and loosens the straps. Then, its wheezing keeps me awake, until he tears it off in exasperation at about five o’clock when we are back to the older, more familiar nudge, nudge onto your side, dear, you are not breathing when you sleep on your back: a veritable pantomime. Yet, on the rare occasions when I sleep alone – when Eddie is away for the weekend or the occasional overnight – I lie in a thin, wakeful huddle, avoiding the chilly patches of the bed and wondering if I will ever feel warm again.

None of this matters much. I have a history of insomnia, am used to getting up to look after Seline in the night, and I am also post-menopausal, so I am accustomed to the vagaries of the night watch. Sometimes I sleep; often I read or ponder the future. If I am hungry, I will go and get a snack of oatcakes and a warm drink. A big doughnut or a small one, was what I used to call an interrupted night: the sleep with the hole. Though I am quite resigned, I do find that the restraint that I am conscious of, for example when Seline yells in my ear or bounces on my chest first thing in the morning, is curiously absent at three am. Then, my patience exhausted, I have been known to bark and sigh, weep, huff and puff. The storm in the teacup is momentary, it never lasts. Getting cross makes fatigue worse. Though Eddie – bless him! – takes these minor disagreements to heart, I know I am just a woman venting, as women often do, with noise rather than malicious intent.

Without Eddie beside me and without my daughter to cherish, I would probably be dead. Living alone only works for those who find socialising and taking the initiative easy. Eddie gives me strength, comfort and love. His loyalty offers me a solidity that has so often been lacking in my earlier life; and his humour and warmth brighten the hearth of my heart. My daughter’s gentle kindness has forced me to confront my own thoughtlessness and taught me lessons of caring and compassion. Her lessons have been my teachers, and without them, I know I would not be here, writing this, having a life.