I’m back in the Delta. I’ve spent six nights in KC, one in St. Charles, and one in Oakland. When my head hit my scrunched pillows last night, I fell into a deep sleep from which I naturally awoke at 6:45 feeling fine other than a crunch in my lower back which can only be repaired with surgery that I don’t intend to have. All good.
I haven’t slept for eight and a half continuous hours often in my life. Last night’s consecutive tally leaves me feeling a lot less fatigued than normal. I tried to explain to someone yesterday why I’m always tired. It has do with oxygenation and spasticity. Much more escapes my clear understanding and hence my ability to relay. Take my word for it. I’m always tired and never refreshed.
But usually, I don’t sleep, either. For a couple of years, the magic medication from Stanford impacted that issue. I’d get six hours in a row and call myself lucky. Seven astounded me; eight simply escaped my grasp.
So why did I stay asleep from 9:30 p.m. last evening to 6:45 a.m. today? I credit an infusion of good vibrations.
I coffee-shop-hopped my way through Kansas City and had dinner out with people who love me, as well as dinner-in with my hostess, Brenda. I drank chai in two out of three Crow’s Coffees with Kevin, Carolyn, and Mark (they know their surnames); and discovered Monarch Coffee at the suggestion of Genevieve. I even made it to Heirloom Coffee twice, once to get a thank-you gift for our vet and once to meet Elizabeth. I lunched with Jeanne in Brookside and thoroughly enjoyed our conversation if not the food. I sat at a table at a Johnson County swine-and-dine with a bunch of earnest artists talking about times both old and new. I had dinner at Eden’s Alley with Brenda, and Krokstrom Klubb & Market with Genevieve. I noshed at The Brick with Sara and David while listening to Jake, Angela, Jeremy, Jamie, and Ron rock the house on stage. I dined at Trailhead Brewery on the East side of the state with my son, sister, and niece. At every coffee or meal, I laughed, smiled, shed a tear or two, and generally let the affection of my tribe wash over me.
When I hit Oakland yesterday, fellow-Rotarian Jim Carriere waited at the curb. With his wife’s consent, we dined at Crogan’s in Mount Claire before I settled in their guest room. The next morning, I made my way to Stanford and my quarterly treatment in the neurology department. I grinned all the way to Palo Alto. Then I found myself yielding my appointment time slot to another patient because he yelled at the receptionist. I wager he doesn’t get enough love.
It’s the nineteenth day of the fifty-second month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.