I’m not exactly laughing yet. It’s too soon for that.
He is calmly reclined in his chair by day and bed by night, listening to stories on his phone just like he didn’t almost send me into a hissy fit last night. I’m still not sure who was right, but I’m mighty suspicious so I’m not laughing.
My lab Sweetie is calmly sleeping on a pallet beside my bed, one or two cats stretched out beside me, and my CPAP machine is feeding me air while I’m snuggled under a comforter.
I wake up to him calling me saying, “I’m having a heart attack.” I go into full military alert — feet in slippers, I fight the coat hanger for my lovely blue quilted toile printed bathrobe that covers everything underneath (a gift from my children).
Dog and cats are stunned silly as I grab my glasses and head to the living room only to see his head leaning to the right and not moving. Stunned, I yell, “Did you take your nitroglycerin?”
I repeated it twice, not sure if I was yelling at someone already on that upward stairway.
That’s when he woke up and asked why I was yelling at him. I told him to get up, he was having a heart attack.
More words, who said what, who denied yelling out in their sleep first?
I went on back to bed but didn’t sleep for a while listening for attack sounds.
Based on prior history, I know I’m right. He used to sleep with about 105 pillows to prop him up at night. I can’t make up a bed with 105 pillows so I go to Phelps Brothers in Clarksdale and meet my soon-to-be buddy Bud (God rest his soul). Bud sold me two single beds with a platform and a motor that would allow each side to raise to individual heights — even 105-pillow height — plus the feet would raise and it would vibrate you to sleep.
I bought twin sheets for the bottom and a full sheet and bedding for the top, pushing the two mattresses together to make a king-size bed.
Then I’m pretty sure it was his medicine that made him start kicking. I’m not talking about a little bump. I’m talking about the Long Branch Saloon knock-down drag-out kicking that turns over night stands and lamps.
Safety tip: When someone is dreaming and kicking, do not spoon up to him and throw your arm over him to comfort the bad dream: your arm will get grabbed like a Bruce Lee move as you find yourself being flipped over to his side of the bed.
The twin beds got moved apart, separated by a chest of drawers, and new top bedding was bought.
All this dream kicking was accompanied by many angry words over the years.
He is such a gentle soul, I can’t imagine him starting a fight ever even in his dreams. It would be more like him defending Miss Kitty and tossing tables of mean gamblers.
I never can understand his nightmare mumbling.
All I know is if we have entered an era where the Long Branch dreams are replaced by the ER dreams, I’m thinking I’m gonna have to move my bed into the living room so I can win the debate of who was dream yelling first.
Listen here, it’s my house and I can do what I want.
I know I’m right about last night; I wasn’t dreaming, he was. And I didn’t use his name because he has more friends and family than I do and I want you to keep the peace.
