The Stuff of Nightmares
Our sleep is disrupted.
Earlier this week, Quentin wasn't feeling well. He said he was hot and couldn't cool down. Granted, it was 90 degrees outside, but even after a cold shower, he was still feeling out of sorts.
He'd told me that morning that he'd had a nightmare. I asked him what it was about, and he couldn't tell me. He said he didn't remember. He only remembered waking up and feeling scared. I acknowledged that nightmares can feel very real and have an impact on us, even after we wake up.
I suggested that he lie down in his room. A little later, I went to check on him, and he said he couldn't fall asleep, even though he was tired.
I offered to lie in his bed with him and rub his back. As I lay there, I singing "Love You Forever" from the book by Robert Munsch.
I love you forever.
I like you for always.
As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.
I've sung this song to my kids every night for years. Sometimes they'll all pile onto my bed together at bedtime. Sometimes, I'll sing to them individually.
As I sang to Quentin, I started to cry. And then I found myself apologizing to Quentin. I told him I was sorry that I was crying. I told him that I'm scared about brain surgery and what the effects might be. And that I've been trying not to scare him or his siblings. So, for the most part, I cry alone or cry in places, or cry where they can't see me.
He and I sat there, and we hugged. I know that moment, I probably did scare him. I told him that it's okay to be afraid. I reiterated that I'm not gonna die. I'm not going to lose my thinking part of my brain. Anything else, we will deal with. I just don't know what those things are. So it makes it hard for me to sleep or focus.
After a few minutes, I left him alone, and he fell asleep. I took a bath, which is my go-to whenever I'm stressed. I sit in the water. I let it surround me. Sometimes I cry. It seems natural to let tears fall into the water.
Other times, I use the bath as a way to stop crying. Instead, focusing intently on my surroundings and not on... whatever is making me upset. Which, for the foreseeable future, will be Betty the Brain Tumor.
In the middle of the night, Quentin appeared at my side. He told me that he'd had another nightmare. I asked him if it was about my surgery, and he said, "Yes."
I wrapped him in my arms tightly. I felt terrible. I'd debated at what point I should tell the kids about my tumor, and felt that it was better not to keep it a secret. It would have been hard — the additional doctor's visits, rushing from the room when I felt teary-eyed, conversations with other people in low whispers.
But I knew the trade-off was that they would have to live with that information for several weeks. And now it is causing my son to have nightmares.
Quentin asked for a melatonin, which I've given him before when he's had trouble sleeping on trips. I only had an adult dose on hand, but gave him one and immediately placed an order for a kids' dose. Whatever he needs to help him sleep.
I didn't tell him that I also have nightmares.
Anna Burgess Yang