A Quiet Morning

I wake up when the rain sounds stop. Clever little app. Its silence pulls me out of dreaming. Outside the window, the early birds tweet their obnoxious calls, summoning the sun and loading the barrel of the very long day down which I stare.

My back hurts and my cheeks feel dry. I went to bed without washing my face last night. Too tired. Wanting to ride that sweet wave of melatonin and magnesium, I bypassed self-care and went straight to bed. Hah. Once again, the sleep swell surged and fell without me. I paddled along behind, furiously trying to shake off my jellyfish thoughts and catch its peak. Alas. The time projected on the ceiling above my head clicked over and over inexorably toward dawn. I lost count around 4am.

As I lay belly up with my knees pulled under my chin, (stretching out that lower back you know) I run through the plans for my day in much the same way a hungry squirrel runs through a field of nuts. With a tentative way forward in mind, I roll out of bed and creep stealthily downstairs for coffee, hissing silent threats at the cats who dog my heels and buff my ankles ushering me to break their fast.

Light fingered as a thief, I fill their bowls, boil the kettle, grab a mug, and scoop coffee grinds into the plunger. Morning Silence is my favourite silence - second only to Evening Silence, and those times I’m alone in the house. Still uncaffienated and dozy, I’m mesmerized by the roiling bubbles in the glass kettle, rising and falling with such purpose. When my daughter, from nowhere, appears by my elbow I die of surprise, every muscle startled straight.

The coffee mug she once painted with her fingerprints crests the kitchen in an effortless arc. It spins easily over the sink, definitely not sticking the landing. The earthenware crash wakes the remaining members of the household, who lumber blearily down the stairs to investigate and discuss the cause of the clatter.

Three simultaneous conversations follow as I salvage corn chip crackers of broken mug from various corners of the kitchen. Sudden topics, such as urgent and outrageous ideas for birthday parties (to be enjoyed in 7 months’ time) and the benefits of beds with emergency exits, bully my ears, along with whimsical musings of dreams involving dragons and pace-makers.

Soft crumpled-leaf hands encircle my waist as my daughter asks for cereal. Meanwhile, moist, increasingly loud fart noises emit from the counter as my son, wearing only his underwear, shifts gears. My husband engulfs me in sleep-smelling arms and through his dream-dripping beard he mutters “Good morning Mama Bear, how did you sleep?”.

I groan. “Another long one, eh?” He commiserates, reaching over me to pour water into the plunger and find a replacement mug. The children’s voices bloom louder as they correct each other and defend their actions. Outrage piles upon hubris and devolves into a cacophonic crescendo rivalling birth cries. It’s not even 7.00am and my cortisol levels are full to brimming out my eyes.

I breathe. Deeply. My arms separate feral youths and talk them back down to the corporeal plains while my hands push cereal boxes, spoons, bowls and milk in their direction. Distract. Feed. Repeat.

The quiet sounds of them chewing count as active recovery and I gulp in the peace it provides. The best cat winds through my ankles approvingly, and mercifully my daily plans begin to reveal themselves once again. I triage them and feel empowered.

My husband hands me a cup of coffee and asks a question, throat punching my clarity of thought into oblivion. “So it looks like I might have a spare gear rental for the 28th, will you be home for them to collect?”.

Unexpected questions. Obviously I panic. What day is that? I whiplash to the calendar on the wall. Have I updated it with the appointments I made yesterday? Will I be home? What time are the swimming lessons? Wait, Where’s the marker? The kettle’s boiling again!

“Shit!”

I’ve stubbed my toe on the leg of a stool. Hopping, I reach out to steady myself and knock the kettle over. Scalding water slaps my hand and I stumble with a wail. My daughter screams and there’s a loud bang. Then it goes very quiet. I find myself sideways. I blink. When last did I clean under the oven? It’s gritty. I blink again.

My husband’s such a weirdo, he mimes at me, wide-eyed and gesticulating. I think I might be asleep.

Suddenly I’m moving, and the lights are very bright. Everything is so silent. I giggle. They look so concerned, all in uniforms. I giggle again, I can’t hear it though. I look down. My hand hurts where the needle is. My head hurts too, come to think of it. Where’s my coffee? I close my eyes to blink.

When they open again I see my husband. My thoughts stagger as they try to stand and line up. Where are our children? I’m still now, but it’s scary when I feel rather than hear my words vibrate, “What’s going on?”. I try to squeeze down the panic. It’s all so silent but I can see talking around me. I can see the sounds of things touching, people moving. My husband’s concerned eyes. He holds up a cellphone screen to my face and I see myself in a place I don’t remember.

The walls behind me are stark. There are no Minecraft drawings tacked up or wallpaper or piles of towels. I look pretty white too, come think of it, aside from the blood. The hand on the screen reaches up to touch it, oh yes it’s my hand. What have I done with my hair?

When did I get the hair tie that’s sitting at a jaunty angle above my ear. That piece-of-finger-painted-earthenware-mug-fucking-hair-tie sticking out of my head? I meet my husband’s eyes and start to shake.

I see him talk to me. I feel his baritone rumble, his hand on my arm. The nurse blocks him from view and I feel the pressure of a blanket and I’m moving again. I’m shaking and vibrating but I don’t hear a sound.

As the trolley moves, I stare at the strip lights above me. Flash flash gone. Flash flash gone. I wonder at the serious colour scheme. Hospital beige and unremarkable pastel. We turn a corner. Flash flash gone. In the sterile room I see authoritative, efficient faces talking at me. One of them smiles at me. Another one places a mask over my nose and mimics deep breathing while holding up their fingers.

I breathe in deep and giggle. Don’t they know I can’t sleep?