Death of a Spaceman: Sleepless in Plaguetown, USA

I don’t really want to write about the Plague. Sure, it’s timely and relevant, and a hundred years from now (assuming the servers haven’t been fried) history students will be combing the records of everyone who lived through this annus horribilis.

But here’s the thing — it’s awfully boring. Even the name “COVID-19” is generic and beige. Other ages had better names for their plagues. I’ve read that no one actually called the bubonic plague “The Black Death” when it was happening. More common was “The Mortality,” which gets right to the point, doesn’t it?

Don’t mistake me, I’m not making light of this crap. It’s serious and wrenching and wholly disruptive in all the worst ways. I take it seriously, wear my masks dutifully, and follow the instructions from the “authorities” (some of them admittedly more ridiculous than others). I’m a good citizen of the pestilence.

But I’m not terribly afraid of the thing. I’m healthy (or, as we’ve all learned to say this year, I don’t suffer from any “co-morbidities”), reasonably strong, and don’t live in a particularly dense part of the world. If I do catch the bug, it’s pretty unlikely to do me in. So my default setting has been cautious calm.

So why, I wonder, do I sometimes have trouble sleeping at night? As I say, I’m not in a high risk group. I turned fifty a few months ago —

Kid in the Audience: That’s pretty old, mister.

Since I can’t tell you with great certainty if that kid is nineteen or thirty, he may have a point. Maybe it’s the half-century mark that has spooked some part of my subconscious. Who knows.

Here’s what happens: I lay in bed and drift off to sleep. I’ve never had much trouble falling asleep, and am often perplexed when I hear folks talk about insomnia or difficulty getting to sleep and staying asleep. It sounds wretched, but it’s just not part of my experience. So, I fall asleep without issue and most nights that’s that. I wake up the next morning early (that’s a story for another time) and get about the business of living another day. But lately, sometimes as often as once or twice a week, something happens as I’m sleeping, or just before I drift off. I become convinced, suddenly and without warning, that I can’t breathe and that I’m about to die in my sleep.

Now, some of you may be flipping out and yelling “sleep apnea!” at your screens. Trust me, I’ve thought about that. I even downloaded an app (because we live in an age of wonders) and recorded night after night of my sleep sounds to determine if I am, actually, choking to death in my bed. But I’m not. Regular, steady breathing, interrupted now and then by a Spaceman jerking awake terrified that he’s about to suffocate for no reason.

Rationally, I know I’m not going to die this way. Clearly my survival instinct is sufficient to wake me up at the mere thought of choking, so I imagine actual choking would be even more of jolt. Long term everything will be fine. (“Not that long term!” — The Kid)

But it’s damned bothersome. What bothers me the most is that it seems obvious to me that this is all about fear. As I said, I don’t walk around afraid. I’m not recommending myself for a medal of honor or anything, but I am (I like to think) rather unflappable. Except that it seems that notwithstanding what I think about myself, I’m flapped. Somewhere in my heart there’s a deep, sleepless fear that the end is nigh, and that it is nigh well upon me. I don’t like that one bit, though I don’t suppose it will end until we can all walk around again without imagining that we’re going to inhale one too many microscopic death particles at the grocery store and end up intubated and burning up with fever five days later.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for a nap.