The Importance of a Good Night's Sleep

The first thing I became aware of was the shaking of the bed. It was like one of those “magic fingers” beds, but set to “annoying”: it wasn't relaxing, but it was just random enough to keep me from being able to go back to sleep.


Sleep: it was all I wanted to do.


It was all I could do, and yet it seemed to be the one thing that “they” very specifically wanted me not to do.


Just out of spite, I refused to open my eyes. I hoped that whatever it was would get bored and go shake somebody else's bed.


“Go and bother Mr. Leamus,” I said while once again trying unsuccessfully to roll over on my side.


Leamus had been wheeled in in the middle of the night, during one of my other unsuccessful attempts at trying to sleep.


He was big and loud and clearly very excited to be in the hospital. He wanted to know everybody's name and where they were from. And, when all the uniformed people left, he wanted to know my name and where I was from and what I was in for.


“A good night's sleep,” I said.


I never did find out what he was in for, but, whatever it was, it came with noisemakers.


It was like there were three of us in that room: me, Leamus and a small navy of medical equipment that wheezed and pinged, beeped and hummed. He was hooked to all of it and couldn't have been happier.


“I got most of this stuff at home,” he said.


I made some sort of “uh-huh” noise and, with my free hand, put my pillow over my face.


Leamus had been uncharacteristically quiet earlier in the evening and, foolishly, I thought that I could maybe sleep.


There was only a brief window between the time the second shift was satisfied that all their patients were bedded down for the night and when the third shift came on and had to take inventory all over again. I had two, maybe three hours, before some student nurse would come in, turn on all the harsh lights and take my vitals.


I had to try and get some sleep.


I could feel myself losing it which is why I was not very happy about the shaking.


And then I heard that familiar combination of grunting and snorting, followed by the cold damp nose that poked me in the back like it was marking a bingo card.

How did--?


Where did--?


Somehow, he had found me in this dog-forsaken place.


This was worth waking up for.


I thrashed around looking for the bed controls.


Eventually, I discovered the anything-but-wireless remote had somehow fallen between the bed rail and the mattress and was hanging just above the floor by its rat-like tail of a cable.


And now it was my turn to grunt and wheeze as I tried to haul in the catch of the day.


And then it was Mr. Leamus' turn to demand that I respect the fact that he was trying to sleep and to hold it down.


There followed a free, frank and explicit exchange of ideas about the importance of a good night's sleep during which Mr. Leamus apparently used his call button.


The rush of uniforms into the room really panicked me.


They were going to scare the dog. He was a lot like me: we didn't like a lot of people and this was a LOT of people.


I was aware that I was raising my voice.


Nobody was listening. They were going to hurt the dog. I didn't want them to hurt the dog.


I tried to show them that there was a dog and that there was a real chance that they could step on him if they didn't watch what they were doing.


The more I tried to show them, the more they swarmed over me and tried to pin me to the bed.


The funny thing is, I knew what was coming next.


Back in the day, we'd played this same scene any number of times against marks all over the world, but when THE nurse came rushing into this scene, I have to tell you I was really surprised.


And really freaked out.


She had a needle.


I was about to be benched and there was nothing I could do about it. But what about the dog? Who was going to look after the dog?


It wasn't his fault....


He's a good dog.


He was worried...


...about...


...me.