Nights Are The Worst

Last night, I thought I was doing great. I had just sat down after coming home from a visit with my dad and mom, a two-hour drive both ways. I was streaming a show to eat up the time while waiting for my son to call and tell me he completed the drive back to Santa Cruz where he lives. My daughter was in her room, talking on the telephone with her best friend, and Paul was babysitting me as we watched the show. Everyone knows I can’t be alone any more. I don’t even have to ask. Someone in my immediate family simply stays with me until I go to bed. Everyday. My daughter is particularly sweet. When Paul isn’t there, she will stay with me and wait until I fall asleep before going to bed. Finally the phone rang, and it was my son telling me that he had arrived home in one piece. Once I got the reassurance that he was all right, it was time for going to bed.

I used to LOVE being alone. I work as a teacher and before summer break; one of my favorite times of the day would be after the bell rang and I would tidy my classroom and prepare for the next day’s instruction. I was usually home by 4 PM, and the only one waiting for me at home was Hardy. It was almost a ritual. I would come home at four, change my clothes, and take Hardy for a walk. Before the dog attack, I was struggling to lose the four to five pounds I put on over the course of the school year. So I walked Hardy nearly everyday. I used to say he was my “gym.” Now I don’t have a dog to walk, not that it matters, I’ve already lost all of those troublesome pounds. In one week, I’ve lost the pounds it takes me to lose all summer.

But now it was time for bed, and it started to get dark inside again. I was not one of those dog owners who have a separate place for their dog to sleep. Hardy was allowed… no encouraged, to sleep on the king size bed with Paul and me. The bedtime routine began with Hardy and I going upstairs to lie down, and then Paul would come up a little later. I need a lot of sleep to keep the patience necessary to be a good educator, so it was natural for me to retire earlier than almost anyone in the house. Hardy would usually want to go to bed even earlier. We used to call him “noodle boy” before he went to bed. His body was so relaxed he looked like a noodle when he was tired, and noodle boy got tired around eight o’clock.

So after my son called, we went upstairs to retire, and the attack flashbacks began again. It’s the replay of what happened during the attack, and it kept on running, and running, and running. My therapist says the flashbacks will keep happening, but as time goes on, the space between their occurrences will get longer and longer. I look forward to that day because they suck. I never win, and Hardy is always left there on the pavement. I hate those images. I wonder if they will ever go away.