Well, here’s the odd mental rambling. Simon was up early this morning, sitting right next to the bed and staring at me — following an uncanny knack he has for knowing when we have a late-arising morning planned, I guess. Even though I told him to go back to sleep (which usually works), he sat there quietly, resting his head on my nightstand. It was only merciful for me to get up and respond to his inner workings, even though it was barely 5:00 AM.
It wasn’t that hard — I was already awake; sixteen years of hot flashes doesn’t seem to be enough for my system, and I had been laying there with the covers thrown off, waiting for my own personal heat wave to subside.
My morning routine always includes both Simon and Buzz, who waits patiently outside my door each morning, at least when he hasn’t spent the night outside. The three of us trundle down the stairs, the two four-leggeds are each fed and watered, and then we head outside. In the winter that usually includes several minutes of getting Simon and me suited up for the cold. Today, however, it was already 34° at 5:00 AM, so I was the only one jacketed as the three of us headed out the kitchen door.
We walk down the hill, where I let Simon roam to find just the perfect place to make his morning deposits while I call encouragement from the sidelines. Simon pays little (if any) attention to me; he goes when he’s good and ready. Buzz, however, seems to have taken pity on my attempts to control nature, and responds right on cue. He’s a cat; go figure.
Eventually we all meander back up the hill and home, the two of them to morning naps and me to figure out what I can accomplish between 5:45 and 10:30, when our Sunday begins.
First on my list is to make the bed (I just can’t tolerate the idea of a messy bed behind my back as I sit at my desk). I was surprised when I started straightening up the sheets, blanket and quilt — the bed wasn’t just warm, it was actually hot. Forty-five minutes after I crawled out, it was still hot.
It was the first time I had a real sense of just how hot hot flashes really are. I know what they seem like from inside my own skin, but here was proof positive that an aging little body can generate heat with the best of furnaces.
The mental riff I was playing with ran something like this: when I was much younger “hot bed” meant … well, never mind. It just didn’t mean a bed so thoroughly heated by a hot flash that it stayed hot for nearly an hour after a super-heated little old lady left it.
Perhaps all this fiery noodling is just right this morning: today is the feast of Epiphany, a day of light often represented by zillions of lit candles. Rarely is there light without heat, so I wish a blessed, bright — maybe even a hot — Epiphany to you all!