Mending 2: sleep
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing.
At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
These moments speak volumes to the richness of our humanity. And in sharing your words you support the production of neurochemicals like dopamine and oxytocin that activate your body’s healing potential and your brain’s capacities to overcome challenges in ways that cannot be understated.
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Your expression is where we find the intersection of Narrative Medicine and Functional Nutrition: in the recognition that everything is connected, we are all unique, and all things matter.
Each monthly issue of mending is a journey into a landscape of words, healing, and personal interpretation. They will be inspired by the gentle wisdom of poets and artists and the reflective insights of our guest contributors.
Why does this matter? Because in the riddle of healthcare, amidst the supposed precision of diagnoses and treatments, the human story often whispers, seeking to be heard. mending leans in and listens to these whispers. It invites you to do the same for yourself.
It’s time to explore the depths of your own narrative and the fabric of your human condition, beyond your signs and symptoms, or maybe in concert with them. Join me as we weave together threads of empathy, inquiry, and understanding. mending is more than a newsletter— it’s a dialogue, and initiation, and a celebration of the stories that make us human, illuminating their integral role in our paths toward healing.
Mending 2: sleep
[guest: Claire Elisabeth]
Sleep Hygiene
by Jill Khoury
A bed should be a tender slab, devoid of insects.
A tired woman should be able to lie across diagonally,
headache to hag feet.
A bed should exist in crystalline silence.
It should have a sleepy blue view.
A nearby window not close to voyeurs.
A bed should have a special pillow to shush the head,
to coddle and safety the amygdala.
If established on the ground, a bed should have
a bioluminescent quilt to redirect the gaze: the prey
is over there.
If established in a tree, the quilt may allow for free feet
or a tossback with luxuriant abandon.
Among other things, do not build your bed on dictionaries
or books of any kind.
A bed is best made from a wood frame, or metal, or dark matter.
A bed should be free of lye, lime, and liars.
One should be able to enter the bed and think
I could fly far away in this. I could die; I could just die.
Question: What is one word or phrase that stood out to you? Why?
Answer: The whole poem is such a delight. It’s tough to choose just one word or phrase. But the opening line was very powerful for me — putting a smirk on my face from the very start. I could feel the importance of sleep (and all the accompanying accouterments) for the author. And at the same time, the dramatic humor makes a topic that could be serious (sleep is medicine!) into something just delightful. It was like a glib magician was sweetly poking fun at my own endless nighttime preparations.
One month later:
I have realized that, without my own prompting, this poem has been working on me in the background of my life. I find myself returning again and again to the idea of sinking into a bed of dark matter. Those words feel like rest to me, and that phrase keeps weaving its way into my speech. It’s like a touchstone, reminding me how good deep sleep feels, and helping me enter that delicious pre-sleep drifting-off state of bliss.
Reader: Did one word or phrase pop out to you? Why?
Prompt: Write about sleep. (5 minutes of writing)
I used to sleep like a rock. Not “like a baby” as they say. Or at least not like my baby, waking every hour to nurse and coo and snuggle his deeply sleep-deprived mama.
When motherhood struck (and indeed it struck!) I became the ever-watchful mama bear, listening for any noise, sniffing for any smell, feeling through my mother-baby bond whether this tiny human who grew inside of me was in need of anything at all.
I did this for a full year, probably taking my physical health somewhere I’m glad I didn’t quantify. And definitely taking my mental health to a place I never again want to visit.
At month 13 I gave up. Raised a white, spit-stained towel of surrender in deep exhaustion, and began pumping my chapped breasts so another human could feed this little one through the night.
That very first evening I was “off duty”, I escaped to my office — a free-standing 10’ x 12’ building in the backyard — and climbed up on a massage table. I woke 8 hours later in a small puddle. My body had become so accustomed to waking every hour that… I had peed.
I no longer get woken up with soft coos and tender breasts, and I am grateful to say that there have been no more puddles.
My baby is now 18, which must mean I’ve been struggling with sleep now for 18 years. I spend an obscene amount of my mental and emotional energy each day calculating, orchestrating, hoping, longing, for a restful night’s sleep.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write to the prompt: write about sleep”
Reader: Now it’s your turn! Feel free to hit ‘reply’, set your timer for 5 minutes, and write to the prompt: write about sleep
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: Claire Elisabeth is a writer, teacher, and truly an ocean being at heart. She spends as much time as she can immersed in salt water, inching closer to her dream of morphing into a marine mammal. Claire’s greatest wish (other than to sprout a dorsal fin and swim off into the sunset) is to help others find the power in who they already are. She does this most successfully with her singular magical healing power — words. You can learn more about her and check out her book — Reconcile — here.
