It is 2:55am as I start this. Every fiber of my being has been screaming to go to sleep since about 7pm (or was that 7am?) and yet here I sit.
My evening has gone something like this: in bed by 11pm (after watching the season premiere of Castle, one of my favorite shows of all time), which was later than I wanted to/should have stayed up, but it took me that long to detox/unwind from a pretty crappy day with two very naughty little boys (I'll spare you the details). Then, inexplicably, I woke up about an hour later clawing at my feet in my sleep. They are chronically dry--we are talking Saharan-level dry here--and have been this way much of the summer. And they are unbearably dry and itchy right now, to the point where I actually can't go to sleep unless they are lathered in lotion and I'm wearing socks, because they drag and then catch on the covers. Probably TMI, but I'm going to the doctor tomorrow and so help me, if she can't provide me with some relief, I'm going to have a Donald Duck freak out moment right there in the exam room. So I scratch my feet and am starting to drift back off to sleep (which is no small task since we *still* have not bothered to hang the new blackout curtains I bought for our bedroom), but the intensely annoying street light in front of our house was shining right into my eyes and I could hear the uneven blowing of a train horn in the distance. And then Tom rolled over and told me that he could here John screaming for me. So I go downstairs and retrieve John, who falls asleep nearly instantaneously when his little head hits my pillow. Leaving me with no pillow. Itchy feet. A hogged blanket. So I get up *again* to apply more lotion. Get back in bed. No pillow, street light, cat climbing on top of me, clawing my hair, blanket will not cover my butt, train horn. Get up again. Let the dog out. Turn on the laptop. From his bedroom, I hear Sam whining about wanting his blue blanket. It's in the wash. I tell him as much. He wants his white blanket. It is packed in a box in the eaves of our attic. He asks for the blanket I'm currently wearing as a cape. This is when I notice he is laying on top of his comforter at the foot of the bed. Why don't you sleep under your covers? I suggest. Then Sam tells me his bed is wet. I investigate. There is a huge puddle of leaked out sippy cup that has soaked through everything. So I strip the bed and re-make it. And even though my cells are wailing for sleep, I'm now completely and totally, irrevocably jarred awake.
And tomorrow is my long-overdue doctor's appointment, where I have so many complaints to bring up, I practically need to make a power point presentation to cover them all. I always get anxious before doctor's appointments because I always feel rushed, and worry they won't really hear me. I'm a relatively healthy person, and don't go to a doctor unless it's something pretty major, but a new doctor isn't going to know that about me. I haven't been to the doctor for a check-up since sometime in high school, and haven't been to a GP more than three or four times since Tom and I were dating. I was fine up until the whooping cough/pneumonia episode in 2008--but since then I just haven't been able to get over the hump. It's almost as if my health got frozen in time between a healthy/unwell no man's land. And it's getting to the point that I can't cope with all these little annoying health issues--they're effecting my every day enjoyment of life. And I'm only 33, which seems a little young to start dealing with age-related physical deterioration. My great-grandmother lived to be 103. The average life expectancy in my family is around 90--even with rampant heart disease and diabetes. Even the smokers/drinkers/morbidly obese are long-lived. But how do I make the doctor know that?
I hope I will find the words.