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| My brother and me at his ranch. |
Several years ago my brother and I were having a deep conversation—I can’t imagine what about, since we aren’t given to such conversations, especially since politics is the elephant in the room for us. But I distinctly remember that he said sometimes, lying awake at three o’clock, he had the recurring thought, “Oops. Wish I hadn’t done that one.” Those words have stayed in my mind.
Three o’clock seems to be the
witching hour, when all kinds of unwelcome thoughts occur. Not exactly night terrors, but along that line. Lately, I’ve found myself
fighting what I call the three-o’clock blues, trying to make my mind accept
that everything looks worse at three o’clock. An image that truly scares me may
lodge in my imagination, like people trapped in a rapidly sinking car or
someone in a cable car dangling in the air. Sometimes I am obsessed by
something I’m planning, like a meal I’m cooking for company or maybe an evening
out with friends. I get not an earworm (oh, I do get those—I may have mentioned
that it took me days to clear “We’ve a story to tell to the nations” our of my
brain), but a brainworm—an obsessive thought I can’t get rid of that keeps me
awake. Sometimes it’s a memory, either
good or bad, but even a trip to the bathroom doesn’t break the cycle. I get
back in bed and my brain picks up where it left off. I will admit that
sometimes I write brilliant scenes for whatever I’m working on, or I plan out a
blog—but those don’t often stay with me after my early morning “second sleep.”
What I am a past master at is
manufacturing illness in the night. At three o’clock, I am a raging
hypochondriac. I have had heartburn that I thought was a heart attack (In my
defense, I’d never had heartburn before.) A cough and upset stomach turns into
a severe case of covid; a headache is a sure brain tumor; the call of the
bathroom indicates an obstruction; if the bathroom doesn’t call, I am convinced
my kidneys are failing again. You can see I have to give myself a stern talking
to.
This is particularly relevant
today, because I’ve just come from the doctor’s office where I was told, “You
sound wonderful!” He couldn’t find a thing wrong, and I had no problems to
report. I simply wanted—and got—a flu shot (yes, my arm is sore, even though I
thought I relaxed the muscles just before the shot). Sure, I have some chronic conditions,
but they are controlled. I couldn’t run a 1K race if I had to, and as I just
said to someone, I doubt I could ride a bike anymore.
But I am counting my blessings—for
my age and history, I am in good health. And all those three-o’clock problems?
They’re mostly in my imagination.
This has been a doctor day.
Jordan had an appointment just before mine, because she has developed a
peculiar rash (we’re hoping it has nothing to do with her new kitty, Charlie).
And while we were at the doctors’ office (she sees a different doctor than I
do), Jacob texted a picture of a swollen, puffy hand. Instant telephone
diagnosis was a bug bite, but I haven’t heard what his pediatrician said. But “doctoring,”
as I call it, does take a chunk out of your day and kind of gets you off
schedule. I’m not sure I’ve gotten back on yet today.
Watch me develop all the
symptoms of the flu at three o’clock tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter—they’ll
be gone by morning (knock on wood).
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