Notes to self.

Through the power (and curse) of Twitter, tonight’s bout of insomnia is brought to you by @MckMama whose son is gravely ill tonight.  Whose son is one year old as of tomorrow.

She is posting updates…little victories, big concerns….but he’s a very sick little boy.

 I am hanging on her every word just like I’m in the room…helpless…confused…hopeful…trying to justify and reason…

There is also a man, tonight, who is losing his battle with brain cancer.  He is surrounded by friends at the end of a very long journey.  He is a fantastic character actor, a football fan, a lover of old movies and all things Christmas and one of the most politically INcorrect people I have ever met.  I love him to pieces.

I will have to xanax myself to sleep tonight.  I can feel it. 

Hospitals at night are kind of nice.  The suits go home.  The night nurses are either very young or have been a night nurse forever and love it.  There is never an in-between.  I can feel the cold tile under my stocking feet.  Because bare feet in a hospital?  Gross.  The halls dim but never darken.  The phone only occasionally rings.  The halls don’t smell like gravy at night.  All we have left to do is sleep.

And hope for a better tomorrow.

In the morning, I would get up at first rounds.  I would put on a bra (if not entirely dressed) and my contacts.  I tried to make sure I was in the room during rounds but, frankly, all the white coats gave me a sweaty ass and the inability to form a sentence. 

Honestly, I don’t know how I did it.  I get asked, and told, that all the time.  My only answer is “you just do”.  But how?  How did I make it through all those nights?  How did I not just walk away?  How did I not just flip the fuck out?

So, to Matty and Stellan, peace.  Peace to you tonight.  Sleep through the bed checks and whispering and coffee smells.  Tomorrow will be a beautiful day.