The £100 Sleep

In my bid to get through this hideous time I have opened my mind to all sorts of stuff that pre-February 25th I would have laughed in the face of. One of these has been my £100 sleep. When I told my grief councillor (yes another thing I didn’t think one would need but actually it has been invaluable in coping and moving forward) I had a permanantly aching jaw because I kept my teeth clenched together all day and all night and couldn’t seem to unclench them, she recommended I did a relaxation and meditation session. I had to stop myself from saying the kind of thing Colin would have at the suggestion.
He was always such a cynic of anything alternative. It still makes me laugh when I think about our first NCT (National Childbirth Trust) class pre-Evie’s arrival. Our teacher had asked all the expectant parents at the end of that first evening what preconceptions they had about the sessions before they had arrived. I don’t think she quite expected him to tell that he was expecting the whole thing to be all sandal-wearing weirdos or something or other along those lines. And that was his polite version of what he had been calling the organisation. Other words he’d used at home had been hairy, beardy weirdos to name but a few.
Back to the point though. I knew what Colin would have said but I felt I needed to try absolutely anything to help me. So I signed up, made the appointment and didn’t really think about it again until I was being led downstairs from my councilling appointment in London’s Recovery Centre (an aptly named and quite wonderful place) to a basement room rich with scented oils, with low lighting and soft music playing. ‘Here we go’ I thought.
I am the kind of person that doesn’t fully relax through a massage because I am worrying about the masseuse touching my feet or I find myself thinking damn I should have gone to the toilet before I got on this stupid table. So when I saw what was basically a very cosy massage table all laden with soft furry blankets I was sure this was so not going to work. But the woman who had led me in here and was obviously my relaxation expert Jeeta K’inan just had something about her that I trusted. So she invited me up onto this table to get comfortable so that I did. Then to cut a long story short she held me feet through the blankets and talked to me in a weirdly soothing tone. I soon forgot about my bladder, my worries that I wasn’t doing the breathing correctly and she led me into the most wonderful place in my head. I keep saying the word weird but it was and it wasn’t. To me it was a very strange thing for me to be doing but it felt completely natural to have a stranger hold my feet while I wandered off in my head to the most peaceful places my mind’s eye could conjure. I lost sense of time, found myself snoring but aware I was doing so and for the first time since Colin died I felt incredibly close to where he was. Bizarre. It felt like moments later she was coaxing me back from the sun-speckled jungle treetop perch I had found myself at (it was so like being at Tikal at dawn in Guatamala where we honeymooned). I came to to this song and I was so so happy and rested. My one hour sleep felt like it had soothed some part of me that hadn’t been at rest since Colin died. It really was the most out of the ordinary experience I have had but I will be repeating it as soon as I can arrange to be in London again and I recommend the treatment fully. Colin would have said to me: ‘You fool you have just paid someone for an hour’s worth of sleep you could have had at home.’ But he isn’t here to do that and you know what? You have to just do whatever you can to feel better again.

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