Oh Deep Sleep, I so miss you. As a kid, we were tight. I’d go to bed at 8:30; enjoy your presence for 10+ hours, and wake up refreshed to catch the school bus. You prevented me from considering the things that would preoccupy me now like how likely I would fall, bleary-eyed, on the stairs going to the main floor toilet. Or ponder the age-old night-time question - to flush or not to flush. I had been told my father had lost touch with you, Deep Sleep, as he made a frequent night-time pee trip. It seemed, however, like a man thing, not something that would ever trouble me.

It was as a young adult I first had a taste of what life would be without you. In the house my parents retired to, the bathroom was between their room and the room where I slept. You and I were starting to occasionally lose touch, and I would hear Dad on his night-time trips to the loo. I worried when I had to go too, I might run into him. Dad was notorious for sleeping nude so it was a valid worry. But such midnight ramblings were rare — you, Deep Sleep, were most often my night-time companion. Indeed, in university residence I continued the early-to-bed routine of farm life and often lamented how much you made me miss - 2 a.m. pizza deliveries were particularly disappointing to learn of at breakfast. In those days, I even worried the depths of my relationship of you would make me die in a fiery blaze.

In my later 20s, you began to be more elusive when once a week Sunday Night Syndrome became a new friend. You know, that anxious pal of yours who makes me feel like I won’t be able to sleep and that I’ll start the workweek poorly which will result in a crappy week. Worrying about not finding you, Deep Sleep, is a sure way of ensuring you will not arrive. 11:30, 12 - I’d see the numbers flip over on my 1980s clock radio, willing your arrival while tossing, turning, reading, watching a little TV, pondering taking something to guarantee you’d join me.  Gravol was always a good choice but could produce too much of you and a morning pharma hangover.

Initially, living with Jack completely severed my ties to you, Deep Sleep. You and he had an on-demand relationship. But he looked for you at times when I don’t, at 2 a.m., for example, or on Sunday afternoon on the sofa. He thwarted my attempts to maintain my friendship with you, Deep Sleep, as he came and went from the bed to smoke or watch a movie. I railed against these interruptions to our bond, knowing your absence affects my daytime relationship with Effective Worker.

Remarkably, over time, I got so used to Jack’s erratic nocturnal behaviour that my former weakness - inability to find you, Deep Sleep, twice in one night - became my sleeping superpower. Thanks to Jack, getting back to sleep is now less an issue for me.

Mid-life women are notoriously estranged from you, Deep Sleep, and I was certainly no exception. Jack’s sleeping patterns worsened during his illness, which unfortunately coincided with the height of night sweats and other perimenopausal delights. You and I lost touch completely for a few years. I found you again in the immediate aftermath of Jack’s death, when you became my perfect escape.

But now, now we once again have a strained relationship. I fall into your warm embrace quickly upon turning out the light. But you pull away an hour or two later. I’m so concerned I’ll lie there awake questioning whether I need to pee, I immediately get up and go the five steps to my toilet. You welcome me back to bed and I’m yours again. And then another two hours you leave me again. And another trip to the toilet. And then we reunite. And then another two hours or sometimes three. And so it goes.

Deep Sleep, these extra night-time steps are not my bladder’s fault - they are yours. Why can’t we resume that relationship we had when I was a child?

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