It's getting harder for me to sleep more than five hours at at time, and I haven't ever been much of a sleep-in-er, anyway. This translates into: I go to bed early, hoping to sleep through the night, but just as often as not, I wake up in the early hours of the morning and have a hard time falling back to sleep.
I can get by on five hours of sleep, but... I'm a little more prone to be emotional when I haven't had 7-8 hours. (Also, in case you missed the memo, I have the cancer. This also makes me a little more emotional than I am otherwise.)
I didn't get much sleep Friday night. I didn't get a nap in yesterday. I woke up early for a 7:30 meeting this morning before church. The lack of sleep combined with the presence of this darn tumor is wearing me out, and when I am worn out I am more apt than usual to break into tears or be super tense and have a hard time breathing. Thank heaven for Ativan.
I made my 7:30 meeting this morning and was fine until about 10:00, which is when the inability to breathe set in. I left church during Sunday School to come home and have a snack and take a pill. I took a walk around the block to get some fresh air and calm down, then went back across the street for Relief Society. It's my month to conduct, so I sort of had to be there.
When I got to RS, I was fine. I'd had enough time for the Ativan to kick in. I wasn't irrational or over-emotional. All things considered, I thought I was holding everything together pretty well. I got up in front of the women to conduct the meeting, and as I turned the time over for the music and opening prayer, I moved away from the podium and walked right into the corner of the table to the left of me. I mean, I nailed the corner of that table with my right leg. As in, I hit it hard enough that it moved a good 6 inches. (This is a heavy table, my friends. It's a good 6 feet long and it's real wood.) There was a collective gasp from the group of women in the room. I just laughed and told them I was fine. (Thinking, "Little do they know that I walk into walls and furniture on a daily basis.")
After the meeting, one of the sweet sisters caught me and asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine. She cocked her head, told me that she'd read my blog and knew what was going on and asked if I was on any medication. (The answer, obviously, was "yes", I had taken some anti-anxiety medication so I could, you know, breathe and perform my Sunday tasks, but since I am not on any medication for the actual cancer, I told her no.) I asked why she'd ask me if I was on medication. She gave me a concerned look and told me that when I'd walked into the table, it had made her wonder if I was having a reaction to medication. I just laughed out loud.
Uh... No. Me walking into the table had nothing to do with medication. It had everything to do with poor coordination and a serious lack of depth perception when it comes to the nearness of sharp or heavy objects. Literally once a week, I wake up with a bruise in a weird place and then have to retrace my footsteps from the day before so I can figure out if I hurt myself walking into a wall, a file cabinet, the side of the fridge, etc.
Good heavens, I only wish that it was having taken a pill that made me clumsy! But, alas, it was not. I was born the girl who is doomed to spill food on her shirt and then walk right into the wall. This is my life, tired or not, encumbered by the emotional side-effects of possibly life-threatening illness or not, I am the girl who will spend her whole life walking into sharp corners and doorknobs. Lucky for me, I am resilient. On a lot of levels.
