pg 226 Our Brain, by Sue Clark on Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons

You’re on notice tonight. I took my meds on time (the steroid is what messes with the sleep). I’m well and truly tired. I talked to the nurse, who taught me the term “hypervigilant.” Yes, I am that.

On top of everything else today, when I finally drifted off for a nap, I missed a call with lab results from the dermatologist, and when I called back it was too late in the day. I get to wonder about this until the morning. But I’m hoping not to wonder awake. Nurse Practitioner K said to cut the Lorazepam in half and if I’m up in the night, take it. I will. I won’t also turn on my phone. J was kind enough to get rid of the ants that were crawling in our bed all day. Perhaps this night has sleep written on it, the sleep of which I dream.

Tonight I went to a discussion at the kids’ school on talking to kids about God (it’s a Jewish school so this is permissible). I felt I was following along, asking questions, and contributing to the discussion, but on a parallel track I had no idea what was happening. Then while walking home I remembered out of the blue the most depressing little self-eulogizing poem by 16th century French poet, Pierre de Ronsard:

AMELETTE Ronsardelette,
Mignonnelette, doucelette,
Tres-chere hostesse de mon corps,

Tu descens là bas foiblelette,
Pasle, maigrelette, seulette,
Dans le froid royaume des mors;

Toutefois simple, sans remors,
De meurtre, poison, et rancune,
Mesprisant faveurs et tresors

Tant enviez par la commune.
Passant, j’ai dit: suy ta fortune,
Ne trouble mon repos: je dors.

Let me paraphrase: “I’m a poor little soul and I’m all weak and I’ll just let you go your way and please don’t trouble my sleep (it’s really I died). Boo hoo!”

I was too tired to actually be angry, but really brain? You need sleep and calm and comfort and rest… and you dredge up Ronsard’s pathetic little self-eulogy, which you haven’t thought about since you wrote the paper in 1992?


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