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Jon and I slept badly last night. In fact, we have probably slept well only two nights out of the last week. It’s beginning to take it’s toil. I pray that we sleep well, and deeply tonight, but fear that we will not. Perhaps it is the very dread of not sleeping that is beginning to contribute to the problem. We see his doctor tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll get the okay for him to sleep in more than one position. We’re both side sleepers, and his being trapped on his back has put us off our rythmn. Or maybe it’s the pain meds for him, or the surgery, or . . . Pick something. I keep putting off picking up Phouka’s ashes in their little box with the tender sayings on it. I don’t think I want it in the house, but what else am I to do with it?

I’ll leave you with a quote:

"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care

The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feast."

William Shakespeare – Macbeth