I was deep asleep when a loud bang woke me, the bed shaking from the impact. I sat up and groggily, called out, “was that an earthquake?!” More awake, more alert I answered myself, “No, we’re in Kauai.” I turned towards my husband, expecting to see him sitting up but he was sound asleep. That is, until the second blow to our mattress. I had watched my husband kick his leg up, as if kicking a soccer ball, and then slamming it down on the mattress. This goalie kick woke him.
He sat up. “What the hell was that?”
“You…” Before I could finish, he got out of bed, mumbled, “restless legs,” and left the bedroom.
I wanted to follow him, ask a dozen questions, but I knew to wait. Wait ‘til morning, wait ‘til he felt like talking, wait . . . wait to know if this was the first time this happened. Wait to know if he was having a bad dream. Wait to find out how it felt. Ask if he got any sleep? Instead, I lay there, staring at the overhead fan, going through my medical list of possibilities.
Waiting.
3 a.m. turn over.
4 a.m. use the bathroom.
4:30 a.m. turn over.
Time moved slowly, like the sea turtle, we had watched cross the sand. A couple of times I drifted off, grasping the pillow, waiting for daylight. Finally, the sun came peeking through the wooden window slats. Taking a deep breath, I stood up. I smelled the coffee brewing, so I headed to the kitchen. Meekly, softly, I asked how he felt.
“Good.” (One-word answers are his specialty.)
“Did you get any sleep?” I casually asked.
“No,” he gruffly replied. “I’m going for a walk.”
And out the door, he headed, only pausing to leash the dog. The two of them marching out, as I sipped my coffee. I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. I thought of the airport the day before. We were on line, a nice couple ahead of us. I told them it was our 46th anniversary. How I loved the Island. On the way to the plane my husband indignantly asked, “Do you really have to tell people our life story?”
“I didn’t give them our social security numbers,” I replied.
I started laughing at the absurdity of it all. As my mind raced, I sobered up quickly. He had to know what was happening. I wasn’t a doctor. Could this really be restless legs? Shouldn’t we check this out? Convincing him was a whole another thing. How many times did this happen before? How could I have slept through it?
Two weeks of sun, beach, walks, snorkeling, and dark lonely nights. He had begun getting out of bed before he was asleep. He tried to convince me, he just didn’t want to disturb me.
“Restless legs,” he declared. “Just getting old.”
The simplest question was responded to with a curt, evasive remark, and his tone clearly dictated, don’t bother me! He was tired, couldn’t sleep, and didn’t want to discuss it.
On the plane home I avoided looking at him. I knew my face was lined with tension and fear. He drank, hoping to sleep, hoping he could keep his legs from moving uncontrolled. Even my service dog had sensed his restless movements and insisted on resting his paws on my husband’s feet.
One month passed. He stood just far enough in the shadow, behind the archway, so I couldn’t see him. He was hiding every uncontrolled jerk. He knew it was causing me alarm. His evening patience was short and verbally explosive. I tried to stay quiet. But on this particular night I was tired. I kept thinking I was going to lose him. He still hadn’t seen a doctor.
No more waiting, no more waiting, my inner voice screeched. It became an audible, “Dick, enough is enough, you are going to my neurologist.”
“My internist says it’s restless legs,” he said, cutting me short.
“Bullshit!” I yelled.
We retreated to our corners and silence penetrated the room.
Two months later his jerks had moved up to his shoulders and he couldn’t hide it from me, or himself. He agreed to see the neurologist, with certain conditions. He would go alone. He had made it clear it was his problem, his body, and I wasn’t to talk about it with anyone. I retorted back, voice raised, determined to clarify, that I’d respect his wishes, “EXCEPT, when it came to the kids. There would be no secrets.” He was pissed. He still wasn’t ready to include me in his fearful, black, hole.
He returned home from his appointment with a sarcastic smirk on his face. The doctor says it’s restless legs.” I went to speak and he shut me up. “BUT, the doctor is sending me for more tests: MRI, EEG, and some more blood tests.”
“Good, when are you going?”
“I got the blood tests today and I’m going for the MRI in two weeks.”
“Good” I repeated, and walked away. I was starting to sound like him.
A week later I knew the blood tests had to be back, but he didn’t say anything. I asked his about the blood tests. Negative. Two weeks later, after another doctor’s appointment, he came home to inform me the tests were mostly negative.
“Mostly? What does that mean?”
“He wants me to go for more tests.”
“What tests?” I replied.
“Just tests.” His voice was curt and it triggered a snapped reply.
“This cat and mouse is getting to me. I have had it!
“Either we are a team, or we aren’t.” And my rampage went on. “Dick, sit down and listen to me.”
No comment.
“You aren’t sleeping, you’re taking two dangerous drugs (I found the names in the medicine cabinet), and you are very difficult to live with. Every time I ask you something you bite my head off. You don’t share what the tests accurately say. I have to play detective to find answers. I’m not playing a quiz game! I know this is all new to you, you never go to doctors or take pills, but life has changed. Unfortunately, I have lots of experience with doctors and medications. You are going to include me in this journey.” Dick started to say something, but I cut him off. “Think about what I said.”
After a year of tests he signed papers giving me permission to know what was going on. The kids became active, and we all started researching his test results. We finally had a medical label. Medical term: Spinal Myoclonus. Layman’s term is Jerks. I could testify he was a jerk, in addition to the spasms. Meanwhile, he still wasn’t sleeping, the jerking was progressively getting worse, and the doctor was prescribing more and more drugs. Nothing was working. His fear was coloring his daily life and the constant tests, more doctors’ opinions, and ‘NEGATIVE’ becoming the catch phrase when the results came – rather strange, but our reality.
I was watching my younger husband, my healthy husband, who could accomplish anything, deteriorate. When he came home from skiing and said he wasn’t going again, I really got worried. When he sat down at 4 p.m. and didn’t move from his chair I started pushing him. He recognized my strength and leaned on me. I wasn’t giving up on him. Finally, after a spinal tap, a four-day stay in the hospital, hooked up to a EEG cables, and being observed by a group of specialists, we had a refined name for his condition. It could be controlled by meds, once they discovered which ones worked. There was no cure. But he would survive. We would survive! We might not have found a cure, but we found each other.
To this day his body still jerks out of control, but he no longer hides in the shadows or in the archway. The night he slept, really slept, by my side, I kept checking his breathing. Finally, around two, I drifted off to sleep, with a smile on my face, my hand resting on his chest. We have no idea how long the meds will be effective, but we are assured we will celebrate other anniversaries, and that’s enough.
Caren Beeman is a retired Humanities/Drama adjunct professor at Westminster College and Salt Lake Community College and a produced playwright. She volunteers as a docent at the Utah Museum of Fine Arts, and at Ensign elementary school doing the Intermountain Therapy Read program with her dog, Johnny Walker. She is a talented storyteller whose stories are a reflection of her life and experiences throughout. Read her recently posted essay: Snowshoeing Adventure?.
I’m always on the lookout for new pieces to post. If you have an essay or poem on aging you'd like to share with others on the blog, click here for submission info. Since I also teach “Writing Through Grief” and “Writing as a Tool to Cope with Anxiety,” if you have a piece related to these topics, I’d love to read it. Anything you want to share about your pandemic experience is also welcome!
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