It is going to take a few extra cups of coffee and some Tylenol to get me moving this morning. I am stiff and sore from contorting my middle aged body to fit on the couch last night. No, Scott and I didn't have a fight. For the past several months, he has developed a habit which forces me to choose between sleep and comfort. Scott snores.
Actually, snoring is an understatement. I am not sure how his relatively small frame could produce such a booming noise. Every few seconds it sounds as if a freight training is sounding its warning whistle. Not only has he driven me out of the room, but my elderly and partially deaf cat Sophie has sought an escape as well.
I've tried waking him up when his snoring begins. His retort must be instinctual because his response is always the same. "I wasn't snoring. I'm awake." At this point, probably because of my fatigue and frustration, I find myself wanting to wring his little obnoxious noise-polluting neck! After piling pillows on top of his head to mute the sound is not successful, I am forced to sleep elsewhere.
Getting up in the middle of the night is one of my top five annoyances about being an amputee. I cannot simply stand up and walk away. In the middle of the night, the inconvenience of being an amputee frustrates me.
I have to put on my leg before I can get away from the snoring freight train. Yes, it is only a few simple steps, but the fact that I have to do it in the wee hours of the morning makes the process seem labor intensive. I hate having to put on my leg in the middle of the night. I find that this everyday, typically mundane activity somehow angers me when I have to do it at 2:00 AM.
I have found myself lying in bed, lamenting the fact that I'm an amputee and dreading the extra time it will take me to put on my leg. These feelings sound strange in the daylight, but somehow at night, they are very real. I have tried reasoning with myself during these times, but the combination of the freight train whistling next to me and my own exhaustion seem to keep reason at bay. I always find myself feeling disabled, and I hate it!
Eventually my will to flee the intrusive sound wins, and I put on my leg. I grab my pillow, typically making sure that it bops him in the head as it is removed from the bed, and I make my way to the couch. It only takes a minute or two for me to transition from our bedroom to the living room sofa, but I assure you I hate every single moment.
Scott will call me from work, chipper and well-rested. When the good cheer is not returned, I will be accused of being hormonal and grumpy. Although he recognizes the inconvenience of my having to sleep on the couch, he is completely unaware of the emotional turmoil the process causes in the middle of the night. He attributes my mood to being stiff and tired. He is only partially correct.
Since putting on my leg is a reality of life and something which I do daily, it shouldn't be a big deal. In the middle of the night, this simple task becomes more than putting on a liner and stepping into a socket. For me, it becomes a symbol of all of the obstacles which are confronted by living with limb loss. I suppose that, unless you are an amputee, it is difficult to understand.