I am dozing off. Of course I’m enjoying this week’s Better Call Saul, it’s just that my eyes are doing their own thing these days, and it involves closing a lot. My husband is totally into it so I don’t tell him to pause the show. Yet I don’t try to fight it either. I simply give into the Seduction of Sleep, turn to the left, put a pillow between my knees, and get ready to surrender to the Land of Dreams. I see a vague outline of Ryan Reynolds and I know it’s going to be a good night.
But then it happens: tiny droplets of pee knock on my bladder’s door. These drops surprise me, assuming they had been liberated during my final restroom break only moments ago, but no, here they are. Rebellious stragglers who start off little, like ants, more of a nuisance really, but quickly morph into feeling like entire gallons. They become raging oceans. And soon I can’t focus on anything other than their existence.
The warm glow of nodding off begins to fade. My mind races. “Should I get up again?” “I can sleep through it, no big deal.” “Damn you, urine machine!” The next thought comes imbued with lastima, hard and fast and loud: “These drops deserve to be recognized.”
My eyes pop open. I know all about this, the quiet desire to be seen and heard. I know all about feeling small. So I push back the covers, come to full standing, and make my way to the bathroom. I say goodbye to Ryan’s face. I give these droplets their time to shine over a porcelain bowl, and when I come back to bed, my husband and I finish the episode. We watch two more because I’m wide awake now, and it’s getting late, but I feel relieved in more ways than one. When I finally drift off, I sleep like a baby. Mr. Reynold’s baby.
p.s. Being thirsty also gives me lastima. Drink more and I get more droplets. I am caught between a rock and a hard place.