The Deep Sleep

Since Cindy's death, I have been on the run. I'm not sure where I've gone exactly, but according to my calculations, I've jogged about 450 miles (in addition to numerous un-clocked miles roaming the streets of D.C. and hiking the desert trails of California and Utah). In the past twelve months, I have been on an airplane about fourteen times. When I wasn’t too busy orchestrating some out-of-town event to get through a holiday or anniversary without Cindy, I was replying to a text to go out with friends. But, I can’t do it anymore. This week, my body revolted. Instead of going to the gym like I normally do after work, I went to bed around 9pm each night this week. On Saturday, for the first time in more than a year, I slept for thirteen hours. Today, I slept ten hours. I have to admit that I forgot what it was like to be stationary.

Sleep.

I have so few memories of Cindy actually sleeping. If you knew Cindy, you know that she rarely ever slept. If she wasn't working overtime, she was cramming for a nursing exam, running to Babies 'R Us to pick up some new outfit for a friend's kid, talking on the phone to her mom, lurking on the scooter discussion boards, or packing our latest houseguest an amazing bag lunch. I often fell asleep before Cindy--my arm wrapped around her stomach, my nose to her back. In fact, in all my years with her, I never had trouble falling asleep.

Since Cindy slept so little in the time that I knew her, it is easy to recall the couple of times that I did actually see her sleep. In February 2008, our friend Liz treated Cindy and I to a night at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel (the only 5-star hotel in DC). Cindy was a third of the way into the intensive nursing program and we were desperate for some quality time together. Knowing this, Liz gave us the best gift imaginable: a weekend alone, away from our house, and in a city that we thankfully did not need to explore.

I will never forget those 24 hours with Cindy. No school books or cell phones allowed. We lounged by the pool, ate at the hotel restaurant for dinner, had drinks in the cocktail lounge, and fell asleep in the huge king-size bed shown in the picture at the top of this entry. Before going to sleep that night, I remember joking with Cindy that it wasn’t too late for me to “carry her over the threshold.”

When I woke up that morning, I remember leaning on my side and staring at Cindy. She was on her back, snoring, and wearing her “Pig Pen” (the Peanuts character) boxer shorts. I watched her chest moving up and down and wondered if she were dreaming. And, if she was dreaming, what did Cindy dream about? Things that made her happy? Bacon? Double coupons? Laying on a beach? Me?

As the morning went on, I started to get sad because each passing minute drew us closer to check-out time. If only we could have stayed in that hotel room forever--barricaded from the reality of our lives.

Even as I write this entry, I find myself constantly looking back at the picture above (taken with our tripod). In that picture, I remember feeling content, in love, and at peace. Do you want to know what I feel now looking back at it? Cheated and naïve. I had no idea that our weekend at the Mandarin was going to be closest we ever got to a real honeymoon.

I had no idea either that eight months later I would again be watching Cindy sleep, except this time in an intensive care unit.

When I sat next to Cindy as she slept in the ICU, I often thought about all that she did for everyone during the course of her normal day (it will always be ten times more than any of us could do in a day). As I watched Cindy sleep in the ICU, I held her warm hand, kissed the back of it, and whispered in her ear, “Cindy, you rest as long as you need. You deserve it. Take your time--as long as you need to heal yourself. I’ll be here when you wake.”

By Day 10, I remember nervously joking to whoever was with me in the room, “I bet Cindy’s secretly happy she’s finally getting some peace and quiet.”