Always just beyond the edge of consciousness...like electricity. Toes. Ankles. Calves that have to move. Restless Legs Syndrome like a tailgater crowding my rearview mirror, a bully breathing down my neck, a whiff of something rotting just behind the wall. Always there. Always ready to twist a moment of peace and relaxation into a kicking, screaming fight to make the feeling leave.
Hot pads, ice buckets, warm baths, soap in my bed, sleep hygiene, rotigotine and ropinirole and pramipexole, "None of this is working!"
Midnight. One. Two. Three. Four. Old movies. New movies. TV shows. Oatmeal, jump up and down, stretch, massage my calves, punch my calves punch my calves punch punch punch them! Pace and turn and pace and pace and pace and pace ... finally leaning, despairing on the bannister. Five a.m. Six. RLS wins, leaving me bruised, worn, muddled, exhausted.
Maybe tonight will be different.
Maybe I'll pull my legs up on the bed, slip them into smooth sheets, mind's eye examining every muscle in my body without a single tingle.
Still. Whole. Legs floating in warm suds, strong hands squeezing urges and imbalances into oblivion.