Home Is Where My Bed Is

Now that I’ve had an opportunity to give a heartfelt salute to my amazing inner circle, let me tell you how happy I was to get home from the hospital to my own bed.  The older I get, the more high maintenance I have proudly become.  Camping was fun when I was a child, but I’ll admit that even then I was not a fan of waking up with sticks poking up from under my sleeping bag.  Nights on tattered and smelly couches were acceptable after late-night college parties, but that was half-my-life ago.  I’m 40 now, and this girl needs her sleep…big time.  There are three words for me when I do not get at least eight hours of sleep: I CAN’T DEAL!

Last Tuesday night, we checked in for what turned out to be a three-night stay.  Naturally, I was so absorbed worrying about Tom that the last thing on my mind was where (or if) I would actually sleep that night.  Luckily, we had a private room, and although it was tiny, I was overjoyed not to be sharing space with strangers.  Once Tom was settled, and his treatment had begun, I had my first glimpse of what would be my bed:

If the chair could be humanized, our brief interaction would have gone something like this:

Brooke: “Hello, Newman…what gives?”

I remember giving birth three times and having my husband sleep on the same type of chair beside me.  At the time, spending his nights on that chair felt like a right of passage to me.  A few nights on a flimsy piece of vinyl would give him a small taste of what several months of physical discomfort during pregnancy feels like.  I recall rolling my eyes when he complained about how he hadn’t slept a wink, thinking to myself that he had it so easy.

Let’s just say, as in many other moments in our relationship, I did not cut him enough slack.   I think the hospitals could save a lot of money by having parents either sleep directly on the linoleum floor or outside on the sidewalk.  I am convinced that there is cement underneath that vinyl covering.  Never mind the bedding that they supplied me with: sheets that felt as coarse as cheap toilet paper and a flimsy white bedspread that looked like it had been picked up at a second-hand shop.  Tom had three pillows on his bed, and I had to lobby for them to find me one.

I was so happy to get home and leave that contraption behind.  It’s amazing to me that someone invented that chair and felt proud about it.  I understand that it’s practical, but what good is a parent who has to go home to a chiropractor after enduring sleepless nights on such an atrocious piece of furniture?   Now I know the next time my friend K. offers a blow-up mattress that I need to take immediate action and take her up on her offer.  She is one of those practical-think-of-everything friends, and I can’t believe I let my husband tell her I would be fine on the pull-out chair.

Tom went back to school today and is doing really well.  As for me?  I’m rolling out my back , putting a heating pad on my hip, stretching my neck out, and hoping for a speedy recovery.




One thought on “Home Is Where My Bed Is

  1. You are SO hilariously correct here… The only great thing about that chair is that siblings may visit and eat on it with no worries of ruining the hospital furniture!!

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