The three-o’clock-in-the-morning blues

 

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).

A ho-hum day

 

Pearl Jam--still a big deal, thirty years later

Do you ever have days that you look back on and wonder what you did? That was sort of mine today. What I call a ho-hum day. Didn’t sleep well last night—you know how three o’clock-in-the-morning-thoughts can look so dramatically awful and the next morning you wonder what ever was the matter with you? At three, I thought I was having a heart attack; at five, I decided since I hadn’t yet died, I should go back to sleep. At seven I decided it was just a muscle spasm, and I scrapped plans to email my doctor first thing. Then Sophie, once fed, let me sleep until nine o’clock. Once up and around, I was fine, but it’s amazing how short the morning is when I don’t get to my desk until 9:30!

Email takes up so much of my time these days because there’s so much I don’t want to miss, what with the Paxton trial in Texas and Kevin McCarthy’s foolish announcement of an impeachment investigation. There’s some really interesting commentary online, but there is also a lot of alarmist nonsense. I guess my contacts have winnowed themselves, but I don’t get much from the “other” side of politics. But my own side can be silly enough—twenty-four hours after McCarthy’s announcement, posts are still headlining, “Breaking News!” when by then it’s old news. It never was news really anyway.

There are some news columns I read religiously every day. Probably the most important is Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American. A professor of history, Richardson so aptly blends today’s events with the historical trail behind them. It’s eye-opening. Then there’s Gabe Fleisher’s Wake Up from Politics—I’m impressed because Fleisher has been doing his column for ten years, and he’s only now a junior at George Mason University (I think that’s right) in DC. I’m not as enamored of his column as I was—in his attempt to be even handed, I think he bends a bit far to the right. But that may be me. A new compilation of news I’ve recently started reading is atAdvocacy News which is openly liberal, pulls no punches, and sometimes makes me laugh out loud. We all need a good laugh these days.

Despite a late start and reading all my “morning stuff,” I did get some new words down on my first draft of “Missing Irene.” It’s fun to be back with Irene and Henny and the folks, though strangely this time I find Irene is sinking into the background. Main characters are Henny and Chance (If you haven’t read the books, this will not mean much to you). But it’s fun for me.

I’m feeling old tonight, and it’s all because of entertainers and bands. A few days ago Mark Wahlberg was pouring tequila at Joe T.’s. I had not a clue who Wahlberg was, but all three Burtons were excited about going, though Jordan and Christian eventually decided against it. But Jacob picked up his girlfriend and headed there, only to be confronted by a long line. And the guy who said he’d hold a table couldn’t. So they left and had supper at—wait for it—Chipotle for a change. I could not believe, however, that for two nights running our dinnertime conversation was about this Wahlberg person whoever he is, was, whatever.

So tonight, Jacob is laboring over his essay for his college application—he just brought me the opening paragraph, and I was favorably impressed, which he pronounced “awesome.” But his parents were invited to a Pearl Jam concert. Okay, I’ve heard of Pearl Jam but have no interest in them. Saw a picture of what I guess is the lead singer and thought he looked sweaty and dirty and his outfit was, to say the least, unremarkable. To Jordan and Christian, those are the musicians of their youth. Christian said to me this morning, with real awe, “Those guys must be at least in their sixties.” It was not the time to remind him he’s in his fifties, not that far behind them. Christian is a media junkie—movies, bands, etc. He knows them all. Me? I’m still back there with Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Joan Collins, and their ilk. I don’t even get Asleep at the Wheel.

My activity tonight was to make a turkey/bacon/avocado sandwich (got to say that was good) and then wolf it down so I wouldn’t be eating while tuning in to a neighborhood association zoom meeting. Got my nose out of joint and signed out early. So next on my agenda: reading a manuscript that a friend of a friend sent. Yes, it takes time, but that’s what I have lots of. And helping wannabe writers is my way of paying it forward.

Jacob just came in wearing a hoodie which astonished me, but when I asked, he said, “It’s raining. It’s been raining for a while.” And I missed it! Hope you got rain, wherever you are.