Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene
I’m begging of you please don’t take Dolly’s man
Yes, the emotional intensity of this week was brought home to me on Tuesday when Jolene was playing on the radio in the waiting room and I was gripped by an urgent concern for Dolly Parton’s plight complete with physical symptoms of anxiety on her behalf: my shoulders went into ear-warmer position and my stomach tied itself in a pretty gingham bow. Luckily this was short-lived and soon replaced by my crabbit request:
Dolleee, Dolleee, Dolleee, Dolleeeeeee
I’m begging of you get some dignity
I’m understandably going a bit mad here but I have vast experience of coping with madness so I think I’ll be okay.
The stress of the diagnosis of the brain mets, plus the anxiety around the treatment, plus the psychiatric disturbances associated with the steroids I’m on, plus my bipolar tendencies, plus my sticky compulsion to hoover-up any loose guilt or responsibility lying around: all these factors have come together beautifully to make tonight’s attempted sleep very weird indeed.
I decided to try a sleeping tablet (although I’ve been suspicious of them for years ever since my sister Brigeen once hallucinated that I was our uncle Column McIlhinney getting into bed beside her).
The pharmacist today warned me about sleep hygiene and the need to avoid stimulus before taking the tablet. I thought I had heeded this advice, but apparently watching Coronation Street in disaster film-mode is a sleep hygiene disaster!
I was tossing and turning and moaning and groaning about losing wee Max in the street! Yes, in my disturbed state I thought I was that Becky McDonald.
My initial identification with the character of Becky started a while back when a doctor told her the heartbreaking news that she wouldn’t be able to have children. This sense of camaraderie soon dried up, however, when five minutes later she was over this news and applying to adopt.
Now, I can only speculate that my recent acquisition of both a blonde wig and a glamorous tracksuit must’ve let her back in to take over Tyler Durden-style whilst I slept. But I think her possession has actually helped me exorcise some stress. And writing about it has definitely calmed me down.
Apologies to poor John for worrying him sick and scaring him into thinking I was going to have another seizure. It wasn’t me it was Becky McD!