“Hey,” my beloved husband said last night, “There’s a contest to win a stagger-on role as a zombie on The Walking Dead.” No need, mon amour; I win that contest every night.
Insomnia is the latest fun surprise in this minefield known as midlife. (BTW, it’s only “midlife” if I live to be 96—which, if I don’t get some decent sleep soon, I won’t.) Possible reasons: Fluctuation in body temperature due to the roller coaster ride of hormones. Anxiety. Way vivid dreams. Or, my personal favorite: No reason at all. That’s some expert’s way of saying, “We have no f*cking clue, so we’re putting it down to ‘You’re going bat$#!t crazy.’” That’s the medical term for it, and the best explanation I’ve heard yet.
Some Well-Meaning Friends have said, “Just take Ambien.”
Me: “I’d have to take it every freakin’ night.”
W-MFs: “ . . . And? That’s what I do.”
Me: “Dude(s)—that’s like a mild drug addiction.”
W-MFs: “You say that like it's a bad thing.”
Some other non-addictive solutions include taking Valerian, an herb in capsule or tea form that promotes sleep; skipping the alcohol and caffeine at night (Get-out-of-town! Why didn’t I think of that?! ß heavy sarcasm); and getting your estrogen and progesterone levels checked. Whuffo'? 'Cause progesterone is the magical hormone that, among other things, helps you sleep. When it drops during this special time in life when Mother Nature’s trying to bench you permanently (more on that soon), it’s Night of the Living Dead time.
I’ve tried Valerian; it tends to work for about four hours, after which—bing!—I’m awake. I work at home, so I don't get anxious about falling asleep on the job the next day (what am I going to do, fire me?). I try to roll with the sudden wakey-wakeys; the wee small hours of the morning have been a good time for me to practice meditation, and some of my best ideas have come to me then.
Howevs, if you have to get to a real job the next day and you're turning into a zombie from lack of sleep, use your last functioning brain cell to make an appointment with your doc. But read this interesting article from the Wall Street Journal first; it debunks a lot of the fear-inducing info going around about hormone replacement therapy. While HRT is not for everyone, it may be an iPOW (In Praise of Older Woman)'s only defense against becoming a zombiegrrrl.
A hormone check with the Lady Doc is in my future, but until then I’m working the Valerian angle. I’m also going to try running again; maybe I can sleep through the night by wearing myself out. If not, at least I’ll be a superfit zombiegrrrl.
"Arrrgh,"
Fabi
