Disturbed nights are a common occurrence in this household, for I suffer bouts of insomnia. Unintentionally thanks to me, my dear husband’s sleep is therefore also disrupted. Parkinson’s has a lot to answer for, but sometimes, even I have to place the blame elsewhere.
Finding it hard to turn over in bed, to swallow even my own saliva, trying to block out the constant nagging pain, being awoken two or three times a night by cold and hot sweats, frequent nightly bathroom visits, along with the insomnia that makes one repeatedly glance at the clock as the hours drag by; is it any wonder that I hate the nights? With all this going on, who on earth can sleep?
The other night, I slid out of bed as quiet as I could, hoping not to wake up my sleeping husband, and miraculously managed to get to the bathroom without making a noise. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly spied a cockroach scuttling along the far wall. Without a second thought I smacked my slipper down, and assumed it was dead, as it lay on its back, legs in the air frozen. However, it must have been merely stunned, for as I picked the cockroach up by one of its legs, wanting to dispose of it, I found it was still very much alive. It began to struggle for all it was worth in-between my fingers. Without thinking, my natural instinct took over and forgetting momentarily, I screamed as I dropped the ugly uninvited guest down the toilet, quickly flushing it out of sight.