To sleep, perchance to dream

Inspired by a book on pain management, Sandy decided to start meditating last year. She wanted me to join her, and I definitely needed the centering it provided. So, most days, we'd stop what we were doing at some point in the afternoon, lie down on the bed, set the iPod alarm for however many minutes we'd decided we were ready for, and peacefully watch our breath, emptying our minds. By the time the harp sound interrupted us, one or both of us had usually fallen asleep. We'd briefly share our experience, relating how successful we'd been at achieving a meditative state, and how forgiving we'd been of our failure to do so. And then, often, she'd fall back asleep, after giving me instructions to wake her in twenty minutes or an hour. Sometimes I stayed and slept too.

Sandy napping with Prudence and Roo, roughly 2003

Traditionally, I've not napped, because I'd always wake disoriented and feeling as if I'd lost time. But napping with Sandy was luxurious, reassuring, and refreshing. We didn't sleep too long, and we'd get up together and shake our heads free of cobwebs, start making dinner, or wander out to the garden. I learned that sleep could provide relief from stress and pain, and that I didn't have to sacrifice the rest of the day just because I'd napped.

Several times in the past couple of months, I've crawled into bed in the middle of the day and let sleep carry me away from my agony. Grief is exhausting. And though I don't expect time to heal my wounds, I do think that, ultimately, my ability to integrate Sandy's death into my consciousness is going to have a lot to do with how many hours of sleep I've racked up.

I thought I was going to read this afternoon, but ended up snoozing for a couple of hours. Because we'd napped together so often over the past year, I expected Sandy to be there when I woke up. She wasn't. But I felt a little less lost than I had when I lay down, as if I'd managed to process just a little more of what is so unbearable when I'm awake.