1746bedtime/640 words
Goodnight Kisses
By
Harley L. Sachs
When a dog gets ready to bed down
for the night, I’m told she turns around three times before she’s settled. I’ve
never had a dog, but recognize the role of bedtime rituals.
My bed is large, queen size. I
bought it because, when my wife had her stroke, the therapist said our futon
was too low for transfers from wheel chair to bed. I would need something
higher, twenty-four inches, so though our futon was perfectly suitable, even
after we moved from a studio to a small one bedroom, it would have to go.
We already had a memory foam
topper, so I could settle for a basic bed. I ended up with a queen size
mattress, with memory foam topper, and a waterproof washable cover should my
wife prove to be incontinent after the stroke.
It was all to no avail, for in
spite of the therapists’ determination to always be positive, as in “She’s
making improvements,” she was not. She
is now in her fourth year of twenty-four hour care, served by shifts of capable
helpers who hoist her out of her wheelchair or bed using a contraption called a
Hoyer. The Hoyer cannot fit into my apartment.
So after fifty-five years of
sleeping together, I now have to sleep alone. It is a lonely business when
you’ve been accustomed to lie beside someone warm and willing for so long a
time.
When I hitchhiked through Europe
with two Swedish sisters, Åsa and Ingrid Henning, we were traveling companions,
friends, but not lovers. As we bedded down in my inadequate, liberated double army sleeping bag, the last
act before turning in was a goodnight kiss. It was not a passionate kiss, but
affectionate. To tuck in without it would be unfriendly. The goodnight kiss was
like the Swedish expression, “thanks for today.”
It was the same ritual for me and
my wife of over half a century. Got to have that goodnight kiss. It was
essential, but for me alone in my big bed, it’s missing. That’s sad.
I’ve had to adjust to sleeping
alone. Bedtime for one has become a routine. It’s a big bed, and I tend to
sleep on the edge, which can be dangerous. Every year people fall out of bed
and die. I know one woman who fell out of bed and was paralyzed for two years
with a broken neck. Beds are not that safe. We take our chances.
I have a rather thin but usually adequate
quilt. It’s not large enough for two people, and if I am not careful which way
I lie with it, I can end up with cold feet. The trick is to use the quilt
lengthwise with enough overlap to tuck around my feet. If not, I’ll have to
resort to hospital footsie bed socks.
With my feet tucked in, left and
right edges of the quilt tucked under, I work my way up, tucking both sides
under me and ending with the top over my head. Hiding under the cover and
breathing into the space warms it up quickly. Then I can poke my nose out .like
a mouse in a nest.
I like to sleep with a window
slightly open for the fresh, cool air but by four in the morning it’s time to
close the window. Sometimes the room gets too cold even with me tucked inside
the quilt like a sausage. Then it’s time to break out my Pendleton wood blanket
for another layer. So wrapped, I’m enclosed like in a mummy sleeping bag, cozy,
cozy, but alone.
Alone, I depend on my own body for
warmth. It’s not the same as when you have company, but I have no choice. For
now it’s bedtime for one, no kisses. Damn.
