A few weeks ago, the neurologist said to start drinking coffee and see if it keeps me awake. You wouldn’t think I need any help with that when I’m usually up half the night already, but all that wakefulness is part of the problem. For the past couple months, I’ve been losing the battle with what the MDS calls daytime sleepiness, falling asleep on the couch once or twice a day.
These interludes, while typically brief, are jarring to Crankenstein, who knows I’m stubbornly resistant to naps. I’ve not been thrilled with it, either. When it already feels like physical and mental sluggishness deprive you of the time to accomplish anything, losing even a half-hour more to naps is aggravating. This afternoon I fell asleep on the couch during the third set of the Sinner-Fritz US Open final, waking up as the trophy presentation began.
I doze off in the middle of movies and Eight is Enough episodes not infrequently, or must abruptly close my computer while working or writing, then stash it somewhere safe before sleep overtakes me and myoclonic jerks rattle my limbs. After the second or third time those jerks almost launched my laptop onto the floor, I grudgingly accepted that my toddlerish opposition to naps wasn’t worth the cost of a new computer.
Levodopa can cause drowsiness, as can PD itself (on its own or due to sleep deprivation), so the MDS asks about it at every appointment, even if I’m only there for Botox injections. Now she wants me to experiment with caffeination. When she advised “Drink two cups of coffee a day” and told me what times to do it, I had visions of myself in Lauren Bacall mode, touting the rich and “deep-brewed flavah” of High Point coffee while draped in furs and baubles. Alas, that was a decaffeinated product, and my late grandparents still had a brown refrigerator the last time I saw it in stores.
Being more the Coffy type than the coffee type, I keep forgetting to evaluate options at the supermarket and have so far taken swigs from mini cans of Cherry Coke instead. It’s a poor substitute, and not just because it’s junky and bad for your health (unlike Crankenstein, I prefer the rich, deep-brewed flavah of sugar to zero-calorie artificial sweeteners) — it doesn’t provide the correct dose of caffeine or deliver it as well.
This week I’ll stop dithering, select a brand, and get to sipping. Afterward, maybe I’ll have the energy to jitterbug to Wham! and grab those Eight is Enough screenshots from a fourth-season DVD set that appears to have not been borrowed from the library prior to my request.*
* It might also propel me through the Suzanne Somers book borrowed for bonus Zuma Beach review content. It’s been a challenging read so far, a War and Peace chronicling of all the sex she had with Alan Hamel while he was married to his first wife. He’s a coauthor and they trade perspectives, so Suzanne might recall “I knew he was married but didn’t care. I was a young, impoverished single mother angling for stardom and he had his own shows and lots of cash.” Then he chimes in with “Yeah, I was married with two kids, but when I saw Suzanne’s breasts it was love at first sight.” (I wish I were exaggerating. Those quotes aren’t verbatim, but they’re close enough.) The most fascinating thing about it is they had no comprehension of their own vapidity and truly believed they were describing one of the all-time great love stories.