My Wake-up Call

 

 During a particularly severe winter in the early 1960s, everybody in my elementary school got a lesson about the dangers of hypothermia. We were warned, should we find ourselves in a blizzard or too long on the toboggan hill, that a too-low body temperature could result in drowsiness that could prove fatal. The idea of giving in to a sleep to the death fascinated and horrified me, but I knew – even at that age – that if saving my own life meant resisting a nap, I wouldn’t be able to do it.

I have fallen asleep reading in bed, watching TV, riding as a passenger in a car, on a train, on a plane – all those relaxing situations where, if I’m already tired, passivity or quiet pleasure will be enough tip me into the land of Nod.  But lots of people do that, and especially in my family,  whose members have a dominant doze gene.

My dad was a confirmed nap-taker, as are my brothers, and some of their adult children. So far, my kids seem to have escaped this. On my wedding day, in the afternoon interval between the ceremony and the dinner, all the members of my family - except for me, and only because I had a 9-month old baby to look after – fell asleep on my mother’s lawn, at roughly the same time. Sleep contagion had a human domino effect, and while we all thought it was funny, no one thought it was odd. Just as we’re all tall, we’re also what I would term ‘low energy’. (One of my brothers married a woman with an energy surplus, who has injected some welcome dynamism into the bloodline.)

But I also fall asleep at less appropriate times.  Reading aloud, for instance, which made for abbreviated and bizarre story times with my kids when they were small.  I would sometimes carry on talking in a kind of somnambular automatism, coming to a few minutes later to my children’s incredulous ‘Mom, do you have any idea what you just said?’  I have drifted off in dentists’ waiting rooms and passport offices, at the movies, concerts and the ballet, and most embarrassingly, during piano lessons.  (But only sometimes, if the piece was long and boring!).  I don’t think I was ever caught at it, but it could be that my students were just too diplomatic to say anything.

There is almost nowhere that I can’t cat-nap. Only once did I ever nod off at the wheel, but that scared me so much, I never let it happen again.  While briefly and tediously employed by a major oil company, I once arrived a few minutes late to a sales meeting to find all seats taken. When my boss offered to get another chair, I said I’d rather stand because ‘it’s harder to fall asleep on your feet’. I thought it was funny.  He didn’t.        

It’s always bothered me that I didn’t have more get-up-and-go. I avoid thinking of all the things I might have accomplished had mid-day inertia not ‘cut the legs off’ my intentions. (That’s how the French refer to a sudden loss of energy)  Mornings usually start out fine, although my head can be drooping before noon if I’m at the computer doing something passive like reading the news.  Writing falls into a similar category – it lacks external stimulation and is often laborious – and it’s frequently more than I can manage to stay awake, let alone alert and creative.  It’s part of the reason why I despair of ever finishing my novel.  It never occurred to me that there was anything I could do about this, since even getting more sleep didn’t help.  Then a facetious remark made last summer to an in-law about her husband’s sleepiness – just another family narcoleptic – made me curious enough to do a little research. 

Narcolepsy is characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness and usually, but not always, accompanied by one of more of the following symptoms: cataplexy (sudden muscular weakness, usually with an emotional trigger such as laughter) sleep paralysis, hypnagogic hallucinations and automatic behaviour.  None of these really applied to me, but bells started clanging wildly when I read that REM sleep episodes are abnormally frequent in people with narcolepsy.  Long ago, my favourite Belgian stopped asking me about my dreams.  There’s no end to my tales of night-time adventure and it is no exaggeration to say that I am busy all night long.  Every night. 

For the narcoleptic person, REM sleep kicks in soon after falling asleep (usually in less than 15 minutes instead of the usual 90) and occurs far more frequently than it does during normal sleep.  Restful non-REM periods are sharply reduced, and the result is an inadequate amount of restorative sleep, leading to daytime fatigue.  In addition, the ‘sleep/wake’ switch in the brain is thought to malfunction, as perhaps it does for insomniacs, but in the opposite way. 

All of  this made sense to me, and I was pretty convinced that I had found a valid reason for my dopiness.  My family doctor, who probably has her share of patients who self-diagnose via the internet, took it all seriously and referred me to a sleep clinic. My answers to their initial questionnaire, which included the Epworth Sleepiness Scale, determined that depression was not at fault.  The next step was to determine if I slept poorly due to sleep apnea and I was sent home with a machine to record my sleep behaviours, breathing patterns and snores.  Once that was ruled out, the last step was to make arrangements for an overnight stay at the clinic, where electrodes will be stuck to my head to analyze nocturnal brain waves.  (I’ll have to wait until my next trip to Calgary for that.) 

The neurologist says she won’t be surprised if the results show abnormal REM activity, which will make a diagnosis of narcolepsy straightforward.  If they don’t, then I have what is simply referred to as idiopathic hyper-somnolence – excessive sleepiness of unknown origin. In either case, there is no cure, although there are treatments. Scheduled napping is one.  Taking a medically-justifiable afternoon snooze is, to me, an unproductive option that offers no real improvement, but the other is a medication to regulate that on-off switch in the brain.  It is not understood exactly how the drug Modafinil works, but it is considered a much safer, gentler alternative to Ritalin, a stimulant with a molecular resemblance to cocaine. I don’t like the idea of Ritalin, and while I have taken it occasionally for a diagnosed condition and found that it does help me to focus, it’s an ineffective defence against an overwhelming desire to sleep.  It helps to stay physically active or visually stimulated  but neither of these things is compatible with writing.    

Narcolepsy is considered by the medical profession to be seriously under-diagnosed, and many people never investigate the cause of their sleepiness, often classifying themselves as simply lazy or low in energy. It’s a negative self-image, and one that I had for a long time.  I also blamed my owlish tendencies, but even after 8 hours of non-stop sleep, I am still tired.   My days were like a paraphrase of that famous description of an airline pilot’s job: Hours and hours of lethargy punctuated by moments of intense activity.

For years I’ve joked that I could fall asleep at a red light. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that when you’re tired, you feel sleepy, but the neurologist drily assured me that getting a few winks in while waiting for the light to change is not a normal thing to do. The oddest thing about this whole experience is that when I take the medication, although I still feel tired, I don’t have to fight the urge to put my head down.  Tiredness and sleepiness have always been inseparable to me, and it has been a revelation to discover that one can exist without the other.  To understand how that feels, just imagine being ravenously hungry, but without any desire to eat.

Sleep has been a drug I was involuntarily addicted to, and without that need, my afternoons – and this is one of them – now have the potential for copious amounts of fresh prose, instead of being spent in an often-vain struggle to stay awake.  Sometimes this new alertness feels slightly unnatural and I’m tempted to skip the pill, but the satisfaction I want and get from actually achieving something has won out, so far.      

And it’s great, finally, to be able to live up to my name.

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All I needed to know about being a mother, I learned from a dog. Too late.

 

My parental decisions, I am embarrassed to admit, have too often been influenced by the potential for my permanent unpopularity. The occasions when I have parked my common sense in favour of making a child happy – or side-stepping their negative opinion – have not always done them any favours.  Like many parents of my generation and culture, I tend to place more importance on the relationship I have with my kids than whether the best answer is ‘no’.  To those brave and confident parents who have managed both firmness and friendliness with their children, (Midlife Jobhunter appears to be one) I offer my congratulations and a not a little envy.   

Over the 28 years that I have been a parent, I’ve spent some time examining my errors, and this one is at the top of the list.  Number two is my inconsistent application of discipline – not the corporal kind – and after spending a couple of recent months in the company of my adult offspring, it is apparent that I have influenced them towards a certain insouciance, insofar as deadlines, order and the judicious application of  their attention to the road are concerned. 

(Note to my children: Don’t think for a second that I believe you to be seriously flawed.  Rather, it’s sometimes evident to me that, had I been a little more with it as a parent, you might have had some more helpful habits in place.  The nature vs. nurture debate has never satisfactorily determined what aspects of personality and character are inborn but it’s safe to suggest that I am responsible for not instilling in any of you a better defence against procrastination, for instance.)  

So I could have put my foot down and just said No when Youngest Son said last fall that he wanted to bring a dog to live in my house, but being firmly opposed to anything is not a natural position for me.  I preferred to appeal to his practicality.   After a protracted, long-distance MSN discussion during which I cited at least 30 reasons why getting a dog was a bad idea (I saved the conversation in case a reprise was necessary), he proved once again that I am someone to be ignored.  When I arrived home a month later, a Giant Alaskan Malamute was in residence.  (Like their Canadian cousins, the Huskies, Malamutes are Northern sled dogs who are noted, among other things, for their physical strength  and mental stubbornness.  These two attributes do not a good combination make, in either dogs or children.)     

I am a realist.  There was no point in objecting – the dog was there to stay.  And besides, I fell in love with him.  There was no other option for an animal with snowshoes for paws who could easily whup a lion cub in a cutest-ever contest.  But the black-and-white bundle of fur who had to be plucked out of  December snowdrifts had become, four months later,  a 115-lb adolescent whose height was the canine equivalent of Eldest Son’s 7’0” and whose personality could be best described as Totally Chill alternating with Cannon-on-the-Loose.        

The first time I offered him breakfast, he went vertical and kibble scattered to the four winds.  My eardrums hurt from the sonic thunder of his bark.  Going for a walk meant trying to get out of the house without having my upper body slammed against a barely-open door, and my left bicep began to develop at an unnatural rate.       

In short, he was trouble: undisciplined, oversized, and too big to control by force.  Despite his affectionate temperament and complete lack of aggression, he was an intimidating sight bearing down on small dogs and children, his favourite beings in the world next to his human dad.   Something had to be done. 

My only experience with dogs had consisted of a decade-long relationship with two pre-owned Belgian Sheepdogs, one of whom came with a perfect report card and natural deference.  The other one got me enrolled in some basic training and we both learned a few things about what I should and shouldn’t be doing.  She was intelligent – as opposed to obedient – and although I never could trust her around rabbits or other female dogs, she became my favourite.  

Having supplemented my patchy recollection of dog commands and desirable behaviours with Youtube videos of Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer, I felt ready to take on the task of teaching Noa how to be good.  Whatever nuances of  puppy-training I didn’t know about, one thing was burned into my intent – I would show him who was Da Boss.    

Mealtime manners were first.  No aggressive food behaviour allowed any more, and he had to sit, lie down and wait to eat until given permission.   His master had done a good job of teaching him the first two, but Noa figured he owned the bowl.  It took about a four days before he could be relied on to wait in front of a full bowl, ,even when the food-giver left the room.  A couple of weeks later he didn’t even need to be told what to do, and without a word from anybody, he lay down quietly and would not eat unless given the OK.        

Next step: door decorum.  Ladies first – in fact, humans first.  This was a bit tougher, as Noa would already be on a leash and in a state of high excitement about getting a walk.  It took a couple of weeks before he stopped trying to take my arm out the front door without the rest of me, but after a while he got the message that if he didn’t sit and let me go first, nobody was going anywhere.  Ditto stairs.   

But the biggest issue was the neighbourhood Iditarod.  This world-famous sled race usually takes place about 10 degrees further north and requires snow, but Noa had his own version.   The first half-block of the competition was deceptively easy, distracted as he was by getting the leash between his teeth.  Looking up with an ‘aren’t-I-cute’ expression, he would trot beside me for only as long as it took him to realize that we were actually Out of the House.  Once the full significance of the situation hit, he was off at full-bore sled dog, with me hauling back on the leash with every ounce of strength I had and thinking that gaining an extra hundred pounds had its advantages.   

Grind to a halt.  Sit.  Calm down.  Heel.  Shoulder dislocation.  Halt.  Full circle turn.  Sit. Heel.  Shoulder dislocation.  Do it all again.  And again.  And again.   But finally, interrupted step by interrupted step, he learned that he couldn’t get away with anything and that if he wanted to go for a walk , he had to stay beside me.   (This is still a lesson-in-progress, and for every time he responds to ‘Heel’, there are at least as half as many when he doesn’t.)       

It did not escape me that there was a certain amount of enjoyment involved in my gaining the upper hand.  Being an Alpha female is more fun than bungee-jumping.  That Noa was learning to behave well was the primary reward, but there was also that ancillary glow about being decisive and unambiguous about my expectations of him.  There were times when I was tempted to let him sniff even when he was supposed to be at heel, and others when his joy at seeing another dog made it seem mean to insist that he sit patiently and watch, but damn, it felt good to be totally consistent.  I became one of his favourite people despite, well, actually, because of my role, and it was then that the light went on.  I didn’t spend a second wondering if my firm decisions affected  my standing in his doggy heart, and that left me free to just go ahead and apply the rules for his own good.   He held nothing against me and in fact, the more I persisted in expecting him to do the right thing, the more he seemed to like me.

Why couldn’t I have done this with my kids?  This should not have been the revelation it was.  In theory, I knew this already, but sometimes you actually have to experience the truth to really get it.  Had I known way back when  what I know now, I could have been as good a raiser of children as a trainer of dogs.     

If I could do it all over again, I’d practice parenting on a pooch first.  But since that’s not going to happen, I’ll have to wait and see if it works on the next generation.  Although, the other thing I’ve learned from Noa is that good grandparents must be equipped with Velcro lips. 

I guess it really is too late.        

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The End of the Road

 

After hours of driving the secondary highway (#20) that meanders across northern Washington state, we are in need of a coffee and something to tide us over until supper  Around 5 o’clock,  we round a bend in the road and fall upon Winthrop.   

 

 

 

 

 

The town turned back the clock in the early 1950s, when local businessman Otto Wagner, in gratitude to the townsfolk for the prosperity he enjoyed, underwrote the transformation of the town back to the way it had looked at the turn of the century.  When he died, his widow took over the realization of his dream, and Winthrop became a  living museum of early 20th century Western architecture. 

Wooden sidewalks run the length of the main street, and every building and storefront is made of or covered with wood planks.  Our hotel was straight out of a cowboy film, and even the pumps at the gas station looked at least half a century old.  The only thing missing were a couple of horses tethered to the railings.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a delightful place, and its old-style air brings in the tourists and their custom. In my hometown of Calgary, an Old West village in a beautiful lakeside setting has been constructed from old buildings, machinery and artefacts, but while an admirable job was done to recreate a showpiece of life as it existed over a hundred years ago, it is a display.  Winthrop, on the other hand, is a place where people live and work, and the place feels genuine despite its obvious tourist appeal. 

Supper was steak and pizza served by a motherly waitress at the Whiskey Bar, sitting side-by-side in a booth by the window.  If I were a beer drinker, I would have gone to the former schoolhouse afterwards, but instead we strolled through the town 

and then drove up into the hills to take pictures in the golden evening light.    From the spectacular mountain ranges of central  Washington,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the topography has changed to rolling hills and the vegetation – much of it low brush – reflects a much drier climate. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, astride saddles outside at the café, we breakfasted on cinnamon rolls, the best yeasty treat on earth provided the baker is generous enough with spice and butter. 

 

In the shade of a courtyard tree, a busker plays lovely music, but his instrument seemed a little out of place in a Wild West town.  Once I’d licked my fingers clean I went on a mission to Find Out More.   

 

David Michael’s Celtic harp was made for him 28 years ago, and he has earned his living playing it ever since,  For 17 years he had a steady gig on the Whidbey Island ferry north of Seattle but in the post 9/11 paranoia, Homeland Security declared him a threat.  His sacking made the national press, but even all that publicity didn’t save his job. 

 

He composes film soundtracks, teaches harp and for three months every summer, he busks in Winthrop.   I bought two of David’s CDs and think I might have found just the right kind of background music to write my novel by.  (According to the prolific blogger and published author Larry Brooks, music can make a big difference to a writer’s output.  Finding the right music will release a lava flow of words and ideas, I am certain, but songs with lyrics are too distracting and classical music only works if it’s not something that demands attention.  Pop music is out of the question, being full of clichés, which invariably find their way into my prose.)

After breakfast and a stop at the Frontier Bank, we head east to the hard reality that scenic routes do numb bums make.    Narrow Idaho passes in the blink of an eye, although we have a very good lunch at a slightly funky restaurant in a town where pickup trucks idle up and down the main street and the street corners are anchored by churches.     

Across from the restaurant is a general store advertising fabric, and I wander in to see if there’s anything interesting.  The proprietor is an extroverted, friendly woman who doesn`t mind that I buy nothing, and chats about the weight of good denim and parenting.    

There is no border crossing between states, but it’s immediately obvious that we’ve crossed the line into Montana.  The speed limits increase and the paved shoulders disappear.   The land gets drier and the roads straighter, and there’s hardly any traffic although we frequently spot deer in the long grass or sprinting across the asphalt ahead.  At regular intervals white diamond-shaped markers atop long poles indicate the limit of the pavement, for the winter months when snow covers the road.  After a time, I realize that sometimes the markers are in the shape of a cross, planted singly for the most part, sometimes in pairs.  They represent deaths from car accidents, obviously, but oddly enough they appear most frequently on long, straight stretches of road where the view ahead is unobstructed.  The road has only one lane in each direction, with a dotted line down the middle, and it’s not hard to imagine a fatal scenario.  At one point we pass a cluster of five crosses, and I wonder how many of them were members of the same family.   

We stay the night in Missoula, arriving too late for a proper meal and  hungry to the point of snappishness.   My personal boycott of McDonald’s crumbles in the face of an empty stomach, but I’m not sure if I feel any better after a Big Mac – hold the onions – or not.   

Heading to the Logan Pass the next morning, we have a brief disagreement about the necessity of checking the status of the spare tire, something we’ve forgotten to do from the start of our trip.  I win the round, and we unpack the rear of the car to reveal a seriously flat tire.  It’s hard to hide my ‘I-told-you-so’ smirk, but my favourite Belgian offers some statistics about the unlikelihood of impaling a tire, bolstering his case later when the trip is finished without a single blip with the car. .    

 

 

 

Disappointingly, the Going-To-The-Sun road is not open all the way through the pass – wet weather and a late spring are to blame – so we turn around at the 26-mile point and make our way back down a  vertigo-inducing striplet of road along with thousands of others who have come for the thrilling scenery. 

 

Almost out of Montana, we see an artist by the roadside, with a bumper sticker that makes me smile.  She agrees to a photo shoot when I explain that I like the juxtaposition of the pickup truck and the easel, but the more I explain, the more I have trouble talking around the foot in my mouth.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our way north to Alberta now, across the border without incident although I see no point in telling the unsmiling Customs guy about the wine or the heirlooms, since their provenance is Canadian anyway.   It’s another two and a half hours up to Calgary on a dead-straight road, with hardly a tree in sight.  The fields are green, green, though, and the Rockies rear up from the western horizon.   The vast breadth of the land is astonishing and whoever named this part of the world ‘Big Sky Country’ was bang on the money.  It’s not a sight I have ever seen in Europe. 

 

Then we’re almost there, turning onto the street where I live.  Above my house, against the backdrop of a slate-coloured sky and lit by early evening sun, a double rainbow arches prettily.  Youngest son’s leaky, un-useable car still sits under its flapping  tarpaulin, and he is just finishing mowing the lawn as we pull to the curb. 

It’s good to be home for a while, but we’ll be off again soon, headed across the water to France next week  A bientôt!!

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