Mess by Molly

My dreaded annual physical awaits me as I sit on the flimsy, white-papered exam table, clad in an oversized medical gown.   The walls are adorned with University of Georgia Bulldog paraphernalia, elaborate diplomas, and a framed portrait featuring a smiling family of five.  In the photo, Dr. Loften resembles a hobbit, short and petite, his brown hair descending in a pointy angle over his ears.  His charming young family poses wearing matching khaki pants with blue shirts. 

This perfectionism irritates me.  My annoyance isn’t directed at him; however, it’s the fact of being in this office. The previous visits here involved a series of stressful and uncomfortable tests, including a colonoscopy, prompted by significantly elevated liver enzymes. Had I not lied about how much I was drinking, perhaps some of that time here could have been avoided.   

The diminutive doctor enters in his white coat and takes a seat on a stool by a rotating computer.

“Good afternoon, Molly. It’s been six years since your last physical. Why the long gap?”

“Hi, Dr. I was checking out your wall. Are you a Bulldogs fan?” I inquire, trying to lighten what for me is a heavy topic.

“Yes, I did my undergraduate degree there.” He scrunches his face as he quickly reviews my extensive medical history.

“How are they doing in football this year?”

“They don’t look good.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad.  What’s their ranking?” 

“Number one.”

Seeing my puzzled expression, he adds, “I have high standards.”

If his intention is to quiet me, it works, because I anticipate how this appointment is going to play out.  Nothing will satisfy him.  The shame from my previous visits starts to return, brewing beneath the surface as my heart rate rises, simmering into suppressed anger.  I dislike being told what to do, am defensive of criticism, and think change is hard.  I appreciate certainty and routine.  Once I become accustomed to something, the fear of releasing it takes hold.  I’m terrified of what’s hiding underneath the bed.   

I inform him I’ve been sober for three years. Instead of the validation I hope for, he’s curious about the long list of medications in my chart since he didn’t prescribe them.  I explain most of are from my psychiatrist, and only a few are current.  He tells me they need to be updated and bluntly begins listing them off one-by-one, dismissing any sensitivity I may have around my mental health. 

“How long have you been on sleeping pills?” he zeroes in on the Lunesta.

“Give or take 6 years.”   I’m done lying.

“That’s quite a while. Sustained use of sleeping pills shows a high risk for Alzheimer’s in the long term.  What’s going on with your sleep?” 

The sensation of being ambushed intensifies my already agitated nervous system. I elaborate on my sleep difficulties, attributing them to high anxiety.  During the night, I often wake up consumed by worry and struggle to return to sleep.   Starting in my twenties, I discovered that alcohol helped me sleep, effectively quieting my mind.  Initially, a work-related doctor prescribed sleeping pills for international travel.   Then after quitting alcohol, vivid shameful nightmares disturbed my sleep.  Given my history of trauma, my psychiatrist emphasizes the importance of prioritizing restful sleep.  Plus, I add as an aside, I’m always waking up to use the restroom throughout the night.  

None of my arguments hold water.  He asserts that I’m numbing my mind with sleeping pills just as I did with alcohol.  To minimize nighttime bathroom visits, he recommends adhering to his established protocol, which is no liquids after 4pm.  I keep to myself the thought that I’d rather quit sleeping pills than relinquish my nightly indulgence in frothy hot chocolates with whipped cream or non-alcoholic beer – a reward I give myself for successfully making it until 7pm each day.    

He stands, ready to leave. My allotted 15 minutes in the American healthcare system are up.  

“Give quitting a shot.  We’ll reconvene next year.   Here’s a prescription for a mammogram and a comprehensive blood panel for me to assess your liver enzymes.”

He has no reason to believe that I’m sober, I think, and understandably so.

After three weeks of blaming the man I’ve mentally labeled as “that pedantic perfectionist patriarch of a physician,” his words start resonating with me.   The truth is, I’ve conditioned myself to believe that taking a sleeping pill at night safeguards me from imaginary threats. It has become a habit ingrained over time. Drawing from my recovery experience, I recognize that the belief in my inability to change is merely a conditioned thought, and my thoughts do not necessarily reflect truth. I am fully capable of change. I can establish a secure sleeping environment.

What better opportunity to implement changes than during my four-week work trip to Rwanda, where the time zone is flipped by 10 hours?  Regardless of any use of sleeping pills, daily jet lag remains inevitable, and all my colleagues will also be fatigued, leveling the playing field. So, why not attempt quitting now?

I create optimal conditions to break this habit. I transform my hotel room into a cozy nest, adjusting the thermostat, ordering extra pillows and blankets, donning earplugs, an eye mask, and the softest pajamas known to woman. I keep my phone in another room. Nightly, I take a modest dose of melatonin and magnesium and limit my coffee intake to two cups before noon. I establish firm boundaries to ensure a consistent bedtime. As a safety blanket, I leave half a sleeping pill on my nightstand. And rather than fearing the subconscious messages that come up during the night, I try to recall and document them, recognizing the potential for sacred messages embedded within.

However, I don’t quit obtaining those monthly prescriptions; I continue to stock up just in case.  The fear persists.