Tag Archives: dreams

Sweet Dreams

I have just been awoken from my sleep, and as I begin to type this in the bright lights of my bedroom, it’s 04:50hrs. I am awake not because I need to urinate, despite that being the most common reason for my sleep being interrupted. 

I was forced out of my sleep tonight because my upstairs neighbours woke me up with their loud and drunken behaviour. A familiar and loud accented squawk accompanied by banging. Once awake, I discovered that there were mice in my bedroom, because, like a detective, I spotted droppings on the floor at the bottom right corner of my bed. 

Housemate interrupted my stress over a poo that was not my own, because he too had heard the ruckus upstairs. He came into my rdressed in his jeans and patterned T-shirt ready to tell off our younger  neighbours. We spoke about how inconsiderate they are, and how old they must think we are. I explained to him that I had already dealt with the noise and had asked them to be quiet by up shouting to them from my open bedroom window. They had sheepishly responded with an apology, and the noise started to fade. 

At this point, I looked down at the mouse droppings to find that Colin’s canine companion, Bruce, had urinated over the mouse droppings and thus my carpet. I’m not talking a small amount of wee either, it was a river. I really smelly river, that had burst its bank and stained my bedroom wall. I cleaned it by stomping on tea towels, whilst Housemate teased me about my irrational fear of mice. Towards the end of this thankless task, we saw a mouse, which we chased, caught and flushed down the toilet. As he was now fully awake, Housemate decided he might as well stay dressed for the day and put his laundary on, which I warned him was antisocial. He didn’t care. If it woke the presumably by-now-passed-out-neighbours-upstairs, it woke them. Tit for tat. Unable to reason with him, I came back to my room, where I saw another mouse, one bigger than the one before. I gave chase. 

I followed the furry creature into my kitchen, where I found Bruce under the kitchen cupboards  with a mouse trap stuck to his noise and a box I recognised as poison in his mouth. I screamed and called for Housemate. When I looked back down, Bruce was no longer in his usually form of a red Boston Terrier, he was a child. He was my child. The mousetrap had gone, but the poison remained. We were surrounded by several mice, although they had taken the form of a minature panther and two Border Terriers wearing collars similar to that of Jock’s from The Lady and the Tramp

I asked Bruce how many poisoned pellets he had eaten, and he told me he had eaten just the one. I calmly asked him again, and he apologised for lying and admitted to eating what had become  five poisoned biscuits. I screamed for Housemate to call 999 for help. He ran into the kitchen clutching his phone and as he did, Bruce, my child, died in my arms…

And that is when I really woke up. 

Like in Dallas, it was all a dream. 

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Waking up crying, scared and/or confused does not happen as frequently as my post menopausal body wakes me up to toilet, but it does happen  frequently enough for it to bother me. The nightmares, for that is what they are, started shortly after my transplant in July. Back then, all those several days ago, it felt like I was having one a night but it probably was not that bad. I remember the noteworthy. On more than once upon a dream, I woke up calling for my Mum. Mamma Jones subsequently installed an alarm in my bedroom at her house, so I could contact her should I need her to comfort me during the night. I am 31 years of age. I raised the shouting for my Mummy with my counsellor and she said it was a very human reaction. Given the fact I have had two bone marrow transplants this year, and I have myeloma; I’m not beating myself up too much about shouting for my mother in this way. Plus, I have never used the alarm for dream related issues. For a glass of water on the other hand…

At one point, the dreams  were happening so frequently and were so unpredictable in content, I did not and would not sleep in my flat alone. Even now, even with knowing what they are, I do not feel confident being completely alone. It’s not why Housemate got his dog, but he comes in handy.

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I’m a little hazy when it comes to the exact timing, but I think it was three weeks after I came out of hospital that I mentioned the nightmares to a Medically Trained Person. I did not want to mention it, because I thought I was having them because I was stressed by the act of having an allogenic transplant and all the other crap that goes with it. In short, I did not want her to think I was having a breakdown, but I am glad I did. Her response put me at ease. To my surprise, the MPT was not surprised by the fact I was having nightmares. Apparently, so she said anyway, nightmares can be a side effect  of taking Ciclosporin. I take Ciclosporin! I also take diazapam and morphine. Put them together and what do you get? Bibbidi boddidi boo.

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The problem with my drug induced dreams is that they always begin firmly based in my reality. They often spiral beyond my reality, but by that point, I am hooked and convinced that it is all true. I am not going to list every bad dream I have had, in part because I feel like it is like somebody asking to look at my personal music library. Private. I don’t want people to know what scares me anymore than I want you to know that one of my most played songs is ‘Music of the Night’ from The Phantom of the Opera. For this tale, you just need to know that they occur and that they are realistic. You do not need to know who has ‘died’.

Fortunately, despite the fact I have had to turn my light on tonight and I will subsequently require a nap later today, the frequency of my nightmares has reduced. Somehow, I have managed to replace most of the nightmares with vivid dreams. Dreams that are not scary or sad, but dreams that seem to make me tired when I wake up. It’s a lesser of two evils. Occasionally, I will enjoy a dream, but most of the time I wish I did not dream at all.  I (falsely) imagine that if I did not spend so much time dreaming, I would need less sleep (or at least, I would have more energy).

Another downside to the vivid dream, is deciphering what is real over what is a dream, or what my predictive text just wrote, ‘dreamy’. The line between sleep and the mundane seems to be constantly blurred. Yesterday morning par exemple, I was convinced that Housemate had had to wake me up twice. It turned out that I had dreamt about the first knock on my door, letting the Bruce in and our chat about the weather. The weather? What does it say about my imagination that I dream about having a conversation about the weather?  I think that question best kept rhetorical.

I do prefer a mundane dream over a nightmare, but there is always a longer time delay before I  realise that it was just my imagination running away with me.  There have been days when I will go for most of the day believing I have spoken to somebody, replied to a text message or completed a task I set myself, when the reality is quite the opposite. Do not be alarmed, for I am told I am completely sane. 

My occasional confusion is easily done and justifiable, and I am not biased. Many a pesky dream starts with me being woken up from a dream. Dreams within dreams. It’s a great concept for a  clichΓ©d packed arthouse film. Of course, I would have to dream up a dialogue far more riveting than a weather report.  

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One day, I heard my doorbell ring, so I woke up and head to my door to answer it to find nobody there. I returned to my bed, where I was surprised to learn  it was only 06.30hrs and the doorbell I heard was not my doorbell. It was not the sound of my doorbell. It was a dream. I have never been a sleep walker, so I found this to be borderline entertaining. By the time I woke up in my bathroom with my mobile phone in my hand ready to take a photograph, I knew it could be entertaining. I had dreamt that I had to take a photograph of the New York City sunrise from the window of my hotel room. I was slightly disappointed when I realised the only view I bad was of the windowless corridor in my flat. Another time, less entertainingly, I dreamt that Housemate had returned home after a night out and decided to have a bath. I woke up slightly later to find the lights on in my flat. My conclusion was that he had drowned in the bath, so I got out of bed to confirm there was a corpse in the bath and happily discovered that he had yet to come home. It was quite the relief, for I really did not want to see him naked.

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I hope, no, I dream that soon I will be off the Ciclosporin and that these sort of nighttime interruptions will cease. Nightmares and vivid dreams were not listed on my pre transplant consent form as a possible side effects. A definite oversight. It might not be Graft vs Host Disease or a secondary cancer, but they have an impact. A deep impact. Thank goodness I am as tough as nails. 

Right, I best try to go back to sleep. I think I have done enough now to forget about my dead dog child. I am not going to lie to you, I long for the days where I am only ever rudely awaken by the dustman. 

β˜€οΈ

EJB X 

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Deja Vu

Via Email

No, no, no, no, no.

I cannot believe we are here again. I can’t believe I have let you back in to my life with such ease that for the last six nights, you have consumed it. Insomnia, I thought we had been over and over this. You are not good for me.

During our most recent encounter, I felt a change. I am totally at your mercy. You’d been creeping into my thoughts over recent weeks, but since last Friday, you have really got your claws into my psyche. I blame the drugs. The drugs got us here. Bloody fake menopause and it’s stupid syringes. Bloody cyclophosphamide and it’s bladder irritability. Bloody toothache. You adulterous cretin. That’s why this time feels so different, so out of my control. In addition to the anxiety and over thought emotions that usually accompany our dalliances, and the daydreams of things that will never come true, this time, you make me want to move. By move, I mean it’s involuntary and it is when I want to sleep. You make my feet move, my hands move and my toes. You make my pulse race. My brain is going at 100 miles per minute and so too are my extremities. You really got me this time. Goddamn you. I hate you.

It’s so unfair. You may be caused by a chemical imbalance, but I have also let this happen. I perpetuate your behaviour. Take this evening for instance, I didn’t need to eat those pork scratchings before sleep did I? But I did, and then you woke me up after all the effort it took for me to fall asleep to tell me I was thirsty, despite me taking a litre of water to bed. Once up, that was it. I was in my head again and in The Daily Mail’s gossip column.

You are making me grumpy in my days. Ordinarily, I would not have thought that somebody was a stupid twit for suggesting to me the day after I had it, that the only side effect from my chemotherapy was ‘just’ fatigue. Today I did. It was a rash judgement, but one that I could not help. I wanted to scream ‘you try having chemotherapy man who has stolen Scooby Doo’s vocabulary and see how hot you feel’, but thankfully, I held it in and just passed my feelings onto neutrals. Tits.

I think about you all the time. I think about you in the day, I think about you when I try to go to sleep and I dream about you when I am sleeping. I hate you Insomnia. You made me yawn in Middlesborough’s face. Several times.

We are at an impasse.

So, Insomnia. I would really like it if you went away again. You know I can’t say no.

Release me.

Emma x

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Myeloma Dreamin’

I spend a lot of my time sleeping. Surprise!

Often, it is not a proper sleep. Poor REM. The sleep is a half sleep induced by drugs and illness, thus my dreaming is frequent and bizarre. In case you were ever tempted, I do not recommend watching a David Attenborough documentary on amphibians before such a snooze… red frogs everywhere.

Obviously, my favourite dreams, at the time at least, are the ones when I dream that I do not have myeloma. I go on roller coasters, break dance and stand for long periods of time. It is bliss. Such dreams are usually greeted by intense disappointment upon waking, when I am faced with my reality of struggling to sit upright.

Over Christmas, I have had some delightful dreams. The magical, mystery world of my mind is a wonderful place. I’ve been all around the universe, whilst remaining in my bed the whole time. Isn’t living great?

Last night’s was my absolute favourite of them all…

Imagine the plot of the 1993 classic ‘Jurassic Park’, but replace genetically modified dinosaurs with myeloma. I know it does not make sense, it is a dream. So, I am on an island near Costa Rica surrounded by people I know. The island is kitted out just like Isla Nublar is in the movie. My colour scheme was red, yellow, black and browns. Kept in large pens on the island are beasts collectively known as ‘Myelomas’ out to kill anybody and anything they come into contact with. There is also uranium. I think the latter was introduced because I watched ‘Notorious’ the other day. I am the gamekeeper, and I am sympathetic towards the Myelomas, but like the others, I want them to be dead too and we hatch a plan to use the uranium against them. My friend GB was taking on the Myelomas with gusto; he was a fan of the movie so he was using that knowledge to protect us. It is a but hazy now, but I purposely set a trap for a friend to be attacked by the Myelomas after I caught him using baby talk on the phone to his girlfriend. My subconscious must not like baby talk. Housemate was responsible for playing the ‘Jurassic Park’ theme tune from his bedroom throughout.

In my dream, I had already been attacked by the Myelomas, so jumping and running away from them was difficult, but I was keen to survive so I wore camouflage and covered myself in Myeloma dung. Pragmatic. The last thing I recall from my dream, was being trapped in a cave like jungle with my friends… In a way, I wish the last part of my dream was GB and me frantically eating jelly, as it wobbles away to the footsteps of the Myelomas. I love jelly.

So, that was my dream. Have fun analysing that, but in the meantime, below is a picture of me in ‘Jurassic Park’.

I am being brave, hence the smile.

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‘Roid Trip Dreaming

My steroids give me insomnia. Last night however, I was fortunate enough to wake for only 45 minutes between the hours of 03:30 and 04:15. Considering I had spent most of the afternoon dozing, this was pretty good going. In fact, I would go as far and to say that I was pleased. I was pleased because I was able to get a reasonable night’s sleep and because I woke up at the right time to remember the most amazing dream. I imagine this dream to be steroid induced… A dream I am now going to share with you.

Picture the scene. A sterile white hallway, which I recognised to be my hall. Clearly in reality, my hall is anything but sterile, it contains a collection of never read dusty books and currently, a broken wardrobe. The doorbell rings. I answer, limp free to find a man wearing head to toe leather and rubber, including rubber spikes with detachable chains from his head, his top had ‘relax’ written it. In my dream, I found him very handsome indeed. Maybe it is because his clothes would have been easy to clean.

The man of my dream felt safe and was pleased by his presence. Standing in my hall, this rubber and leather clad man declared his undying love for me. The words escape me now (I should have written it down when I awoke, but I thus sleep was more important), but they were incredibly romantic. My heart fluttered. Despite me not having a limp in my dream, I did have MM. He didn’t care, maybe it was a fetish.

Before I awoke from my happiness, there was snogging and floating hearts. Disappointingly, my dream was lacking a soundtrack. Perhaps next time.

So, I have illustrated the scene for your enjoyment.

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Thanks steroids. Now, I wonder what this all means, apart from desperation of course.

Analyse That!

EJBx

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