I rolled over and groaned. This never happens to me. I never get sick. I tried to focus on the clock, but the numbers were blurred, the digits bleeding together into obscurity. I squinted. It was 3:20 a.m. It had been 20 minutes since I last looked. For the third night in a row I could not sleep.
For the umpteenth time I flopped back down. I was drenched in sweat. Why does this room have to be so darn hot? My wife had accused me of hogging the covers, but that made no sense - I was boiling. I uncovered myself and made a weak attempt toward comfort. Just two hours - give me two hours.
I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke with a jerk. More squinting, bringing the clock in to focus. Curses - it was now 20 minutes to four. I laid back down, gasping for breath and suddenly freezing. It must have been; wait - it was, that same dream.
For the better part of a week my slumber had been methodically destroyed by the same recurring vision. I was on a lake, and I wanted to go for a swim. I sat at the back of the boat, my feet dangling in the water. All was still - no turmoil, no violence. I lifted myself off the hull and gently splashed into the water. For a moment I would float, but then gradually I began to sink. The water crept up to my shoulders. As my lifejacket became saturated, it acted as an anchor. The water reached my neck. I did not fight, and there was no one else about. I was totally alone, slowly being pulled down, and I seemed to quietly accept my fate.
The water reached my chin, lapping gently. Only my head was exposed, but still I did not struggle. The water climbed higher up my jaw line, to my bottom lip and then, suddenly, gushed into my mouth.
That is when, with a start, I would jerk myself awake, coughing and gagging as though I truly was about to drown. For the better part of a week this had been my nighttime routine, every 20 minutes. My body was sore from having done so many crunches, my throat raw from constantly gasping for air.
What a stupid dream. I could not sleep. Even when I laid down during the day to rest, the placid body of water plagued me. I could not doze for more than 20 minutes at a time.
In addition to sleep depravation (or perhaps as a result thereof), my head felt like the ocean surf was attempting to break through my skull. I could not eat. I had no appetite. I would sit down, hungry as could be, but not bring myself to take so much as a bite. Nothing sounded, smelled, or tasted good. It hurt to lie down, and I resented having to be up.
As I went about in a state of delirium, something from my past scratched its way into consciousness. My mind wandered to my childhood. I pictured myself running home from the school bus. I burst through the front door, tossing my book bag as only a child can get away with doing. On the kitchen counter, still warm from the oven, was a great dish of macaroni and cheese. In between working on the farm, working in town, and caring for a household with four children, my mother always found time to have something homemade on the table for us when we got home from school. Without a doubt, macaroni and cheese was always my favorite.
I can imagine it now - a great, deep dish of golden succulence. Each noodle seemed perfectly arranged, tucked warmly into its own bed of melted cheese, steam rising from the ensemble. I would dig in with a spatula, relishing the moist sound of cheese bending, stretching, and finally breaking. As I loaded my plate, bits would break away and plop down, leaving brief contrails of melted cheese that seemed to stretch to hair-thin infinity before finally letting go. Where had this resurrected nugget of nostalgia been hiding?
At noon one day the phone rang. It was my wife, checking to see if I felt any better. "Must, have, macaroni and cheese", was my Neanderthalic grunt of a response. I heard a brief silence, followed by an inquiry as to whether I wanted homemade, or boxed macaroni and cheese.
I groaned. My stomach tightened, threatening to roll over onto itself and eject its nonexistent contents. Macaroni and cheese from a box? Sure - just add water. Just like a Chia Pet. There was once a time in my life when I considered macaroni and cheese from a box to be a real treat. Then I had it a second time and quickly recognized it for what it is - little more than featureless worms in a yellowed sawdust sauce.
Children seem to love boxed macaroni and cheese. I can only wonder why their parents hate them enough to serve it in the first place.
At least, that was my though process as I baked and convulsed on the couch that afternoon, finding solace from the lake in a forgotten memory of American comfort food. I wasn't even sure that I had actually spoken to my wife - was that a dream, too?
What I know for certain is that Friday evening I had homemade macaroni and cheese for the first time in 20 years. She made it with real cheese, pieces of bacon, and bits of spiced sausage.
The next day, I felt like a million bucks.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
For the umpteenth time I flopped back down. I was drenched in sweat. Why does this room have to be so darn hot? My wife had accused me of hogging the covers, but that made no sense - I was boiling. I uncovered myself and made a weak attempt toward comfort. Just two hours - give me two hours.
I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke with a jerk. More squinting, bringing the clock in to focus. Curses - it was now 20 minutes to four. I laid back down, gasping for breath and suddenly freezing. It must have been; wait - it was, that same dream.
For the better part of a week my slumber had been methodically destroyed by the same recurring vision. I was on a lake, and I wanted to go for a swim. I sat at the back of the boat, my feet dangling in the water. All was still - no turmoil, no violence. I lifted myself off the hull and gently splashed into the water. For a moment I would float, but then gradually I began to sink. The water crept up to my shoulders. As my lifejacket became saturated, it acted as an anchor. The water reached my neck. I did not fight, and there was no one else about. I was totally alone, slowly being pulled down, and I seemed to quietly accept my fate.
The water reached my chin, lapping gently. Only my head was exposed, but still I did not struggle. The water climbed higher up my jaw line, to my bottom lip and then, suddenly, gushed into my mouth.
That is when, with a start, I would jerk myself awake, coughing and gagging as though I truly was about to drown. For the better part of a week this had been my nighttime routine, every 20 minutes. My body was sore from having done so many crunches, my throat raw from constantly gasping for air.
What a stupid dream. I could not sleep. Even when I laid down during the day to rest, the placid body of water plagued me. I could not doze for more than 20 minutes at a time.
In addition to sleep depravation (or perhaps as a result thereof), my head felt like the ocean surf was attempting to break through my skull. I could not eat. I had no appetite. I would sit down, hungry as could be, but not bring myself to take so much as a bite. Nothing sounded, smelled, or tasted good. It hurt to lie down, and I resented having to be up.
As I went about in a state of delirium, something from my past scratched its way into consciousness. My mind wandered to my childhood. I pictured myself running home from the school bus. I burst through the front door, tossing my book bag as only a child can get away with doing. On the kitchen counter, still warm from the oven, was a great dish of macaroni and cheese. In between working on the farm, working in town, and caring for a household with four children, my mother always found time to have something homemade on the table for us when we got home from school. Without a doubt, macaroni and cheese was always my favorite.
I can imagine it now - a great, deep dish of golden succulence. Each noodle seemed perfectly arranged, tucked warmly into its own bed of melted cheese, steam rising from the ensemble. I would dig in with a spatula, relishing the moist sound of cheese bending, stretching, and finally breaking. As I loaded my plate, bits would break away and plop down, leaving brief contrails of melted cheese that seemed to stretch to hair-thin infinity before finally letting go. Where had this resurrected nugget of nostalgia been hiding?
At noon one day the phone rang. It was my wife, checking to see if I felt any better. "Must, have, macaroni and cheese", was my Neanderthalic grunt of a response. I heard a brief silence, followed by an inquiry as to whether I wanted homemade, or boxed macaroni and cheese.
I groaned. My stomach tightened, threatening to roll over onto itself and eject its nonexistent contents. Macaroni and cheese from a box? Sure - just add water. Just like a Chia Pet. There was once a time in my life when I considered macaroni and cheese from a box to be a real treat. Then I had it a second time and quickly recognized it for what it is - little more than featureless worms in a yellowed sawdust sauce.
Children seem to love boxed macaroni and cheese. I can only wonder why their parents hate them enough to serve it in the first place.
At least, that was my though process as I baked and convulsed on the couch that afternoon, finding solace from the lake in a forgotten memory of American comfort food. I wasn't even sure that I had actually spoken to my wife - was that a dream, too?
What I know for certain is that Friday evening I had homemade macaroni and cheese for the first time in 20 years. She made it with real cheese, pieces of bacon, and bits of spiced sausage.
The next day, I felt like a million bucks.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
