The Douchebag Hour

If I had to choose a favorite hour during any 24-hour period, (and I mean who hasn’t done that?) I'd find it tricky: I might choose the one starting at 6 am when the world is awake but still fairly quiet. Or maybe even 4pm - the light at the end of the tunnel hour, when school’s done and work is almost done, and there's the promise of dinner in the not-too-distant future. But then you see, there’s 7pm when the evening has arrived, bringing whatever the evening brings and that’s usually pretty good too.

Choosing my least favorite hour is easy though, because 3am is an attention-seeking douchebag.

I mean what is it about 3 in the morning that it gets to screw with a perfectly legitimate night's sleep just for the sake of it? It's not even as if it's a particularly interesting hour. It's a mediocre 60 minutes that lies somewhere between dusk and dawn. The only thing that makes it even notable is that at that hour in whatever time zone, gazillions of people all over the planet are either fast asleep or wondering why they're still fucking awake.

There are weeks when all is easy and I sleep like a baby. And other weeks where I feel like I'm battling my way out of a paper bag, only to find myself inside another paper bag, with not enough puff to pick up a fight. That was this week, because I had the 3am blues.

I could get to sleep really easily, but come the attention-seeking hour, I’m awake. And all manner of toot runs through my head. Not even useful thoughts, or legitimate concerns. Just a vast parade of stuff I have to do, and stuff I might have to do, and of course stuff I haven't done. Like someone emptied out a Hoover bag of all the things I feel a bit shitty about over the past 50 years, and formed some sort of Easter parade with it.

I used to rage against it. Fight it. But then one of those 3 o’clock in the morning wake-ups a few years ago calmed me down.

December 2017 and I was lying awake in the middle of the night. It seemed clear I was going to die.

Not from an overactive imagination, or my Easter Parade of shame, but because I had a post-surgical infection that was festering away in my body.

The procedure itself had been tricky but necessary. I'd been over 12 hours on the table. But I’d come through it. Pretty well in fact. I was home within the week. But then the trouble started.

After discovering the infection, my ashen-faced doctor had supplied me with monster antibiotics. He'd told me to be prepared to go back into surgery in 48 hours to clean out my wounds if they didn't work.

The first pill was fine, and I took the second before going to bed.
I slept heavily, then woke up knowing something was very wrong.
The inside of my mouth was burning and bleeding, and my nose felt like it was buzzing as it burnt and bled too.
I tried to sit up, but it was too hard to move.

Mark lay beside me, breathing peacefully. I lay awake in the dark, because there was nothing else I could do.

Lights from a clock across the room read 3:17. My body ached, and was as heavy as lead. For the first time ever, I accepted that this may be my time.

I was surprised at how unspectacular the signs were. There was no great golden light from the sky. No choirs of angels. Instead, I felt physically that all the illnesses I'd ever had in my life had come together and were having a wee party.

I felt sorry for this body of mine I had treated so harshly. Ridiculous that I had spent any time at all worrying about my ass being too big, or my nose being the wrong shape. Stupid for wasting time being ashamed about stuff that in the long run, hadn’t really mattered.

Lying in the dark, I racked my brains how best to tell Mark that he should not be afraid to love someone else, and to have no guilt when he did.
And my heart ached with the idea I would ruin Christmas forever for my beautiful beautiful boys, whom I‘d never want to leave.

I felt myself sinking.
And then I heard the noise.
Music. Like a fairground. And people.

And a bell ringing - not a church bell, but the kind like at the end of a wrestling match.

Ding.
And I was not in a bedroom. I was standing in front of an old-style rollercoaster.
The sign above it said "Life" in curly pink letters, and there was another big sign by the entrance which read,"This Ride Is Experiential. Keep your hands inside the carriage!" - which lit up every time the bell rang.

Then I'm sitting in a carriage on the rollercoaster.
Mark is beside me and I sense that my kids are sitting behind.
In the carriage in front of me, there is someone I don't know. A man. He is balding, and what is left of his hair is brown.

The sound of the machinery creaks as the carriage starts to move and we head out and up the tracks of the rollercoaster.

At the top of the first peak, we stop for a moment and look out at the giant track before us. The rollercoaster is enormous, with huge peaks, and sharp dips, and curves, and then little flat plateaus.

It fills the whole horizon - amidst a forest of scaffolding-like tree structures. But instead of green leaves, these trees have glossy white stones with words written on them: Importance. Wealth. Respect. Success. Revenge. Power. Fear.

The bell rings loudly and the carriage slowly starts to move forward.

"This ride is experiential. Keep your hands inside the carriage!"

And off we go.

My stomach somersaults as we roll. The ride is amazing. Hilarious and terrifying and beautiful and exhilarating and exhausting and hilarious again.

I feel vibrant and alive, and I understand how it's just as possible to enjoy the slow ride to the peaks as it is to relax into the drop. The point of the ride is both.

Then the carriage comes to a little plateau and as we taxi along gently up to a peak, preparing for the next dip in the ride, the man in the front carriage reaches out to one of the stones on the tree to our right. A little stone that says, "Importance."
He tries to pull it off the tree, but it will not budge. So he clasps it in his hand.
Then as the carriage starts to pick up speed, he holds on tighter.
He will not let go of the stone and the stone on the tree will not budge.

Further and further the carriage moves, and he is stretching so much it is uncomfortable even to watch. But he will not let go.

Then the carriage suddenly jerks forward into the next dip and there is a loud pop as he splits in two. I feel his blood spatter all over my face as the bell rings victoriously.

"This ride is experiential. Keep your hands inside the carriage!!!'

And then I am lying awake in the dark of the bedroom. And the blood is not his blood, but my own.

And I understand.

I can let go of everything I’m afraid of. I can stay on the ride.

Dawn was breaking, and with a great push, I moved the lead weight of my body. Mark woke with a start.
"Are you Ok?" he asked.
"Call the doctor,” I said, “I think I'm allergic to these antibiotics."

And indeed I was. And so 5 hours later, a new set of antibiotics, and the miracle of science, and I was no longer heading for the dip. With every bone in my body, I could feel myself coming very slowly back to solid ground.

A few days after that, I was able to sit at the table for 20 minutes to eat dinner.

A week later, fully showered and dressed and able to walk around. Overwhelmed with gratitude and amazement for all that life has to offer. All the peaks and troughs and everything in between.

All of it is a miracle, really when you think about it.

This week as I sat in the living room drinking ginger tea and sulking because I should be asleep but the clock had hit fucking 3 o’clock and, for the third night in a row, my head had decided it was wakey time.

I laughed at myself. At my own complete ridiculousness.

So what if the dishwasher leaks and I can’t find the answer to a problem? So what if I forgot to book dental appointments? So what if I don’t like the neighbor up the street who flies a Trump flag, and I think I might have to change the car insurance because the guy on customer services was just rude? And it’s Ok that I forgot my brother-in-law’s birthday because it was years ago and we still talk and we’re fine. And it doesn’t mean I have dementia because I can’t recall the name of the guy at drama school in the 1990s who used to do drunk juggling at parties, because who really needs to remember that anyway?

And maybe I won’t sleep tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night after. But at some point I will, because that is how this shit works. In all things there are peaks and troughs, ups and downs, failures and successes, and holding on to an idea and believing that where you are now is where you will always be, will split you in two.

It is not always easy. But it is not always hard either. Because the ride of Life is experiential. And that’s what makes it worth taking.

Till next week

xo

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