Nightmare
SCENARIOI don't have a pet.
That night it had taken me rather longer than usual to get off to sleep. I'm normally so tired from work that I drop off almost immediately. After reading for a while and some tossing and turning, I fell into a restless, fitful slumber.
From somewhere I could hear knocking - it was irregular, sporadic, but progressively louder, apparently getting nearer, and increasingly disturbing. Not sure whether I was awake or asleep, I decided to get up and find out where the noise was coming from. As I turned in the bed, my rear end butted up against something hard, but something most definitely living and pressing itself ever more firmly against me, preventing me from turning further. I can honestly say that this is the only time in my life I have experienced true, blood-chilling, naked fear.
It may sound like a Stephen King cliché, but I froze completely - still feeling the hard living thing, pressing, wriggling, trying its hardest to burrow ever deeper into the small of my back, as if it were trying to invade my person, invade my body.
With
an enormous effort of will, I managed to overcome the icy horror and managed to
reach out to turn on the bedside light. Even as I did this, the creature's presence
evaporated and I knew in a rush of relief, tangled sheets and cold sweat that
it had been a nightmare.
Three months into the combination and still getting the odd nightmare, but Jesus wept, this was the worst I've ever had - it was so terrifyingly real. With that, the almost constant stomach cramps, barely controllable diarrhoea, zits (yes, acne at 49!), the sheer tyranny of taking the hateful pills three times a day for the rest of my life, woeful adherence (or rather, lack thereof), probable future re-disposition of my body fat, no longer being able to enjoy a few drinks any more, I wonder why I bother with this so-called life-saving medication. In fact I spend most of my waking time wondering it, and a good deal of my sleeping time too, when I'm not having nightmares that is.
And of course the upshot is that, despite all the above whinges, my life most definitely is a whole lot better than it was before I started on these damned things. To start with, I HAVE a life. Meaning I'm back at work - back being a 'useful member of society' again. Which in its turn means I get to meet all sorts of real people and not just fellow pozitoids, social workers, health workers and the endless stream of faceless bureaucrats I came up against when trying to claw back some of the vast amounts of tax I paid before I got sick.
So even though I feel sick to my stomach every time I open the fridge door and see the dreaded Dosette box lying there, even though I can barely bring myself to swallow the evil capsules, I'm hugely grateful. Grateful that someone, somewhere, took the trouble to find something that not only prolongs my life, but, more importantly, improves its quality to such an extent that I can really enjoy it. Yes, maybe that someone was driven by a profit motive, but hey, who cares? This is most definitely a case of the end justifying the means. And there's not a day goes by that I don't thank heaven that I live in the Western world and that I have free and unfettered access to these little horrors.
And there's not a day goes by that I don't think of all the millions of people in other parts of the world who don't have access to these drugs and who would give anything to be in the enviable position of being able to whinge about the bloody things in the first place. And even have lives, in order to have sleep, in order to have nightmares. Sweet dreams, readers...
