Let There Be Light!

A very curious thing began happening to me a few weeks ago: I began craving sunlight.

Initially, this was a subconscious phenomenon. I found myself staring at pictures of sun splashed beaches, and salivating over photos from our trip to Costa Rica. I lingered at windows where filtered sunlight radiated ephemerally through bleak winter skies. Amidst these yearnings, I did a number of unusual things: painted one of my windowless exam rooms a sunny yellow and the other a vibrant green; spent $100 on a poster of a luxuriously verdant golf course; cancelled a half-day's worth of patient visits when I briefly glimpsed sunbeams glinting off the ubiquitous snow.

Negative things were happening as well: an infuriating insomnia (see my preceding post); a unsettling nervous tension; a pervasive restlessness. I found myself dreading my job (which I actually like), and I had the unnerving sensation that, as I walked into the hospital out of another dreary gray morning, the door sliding closed behind me was a stone rolling shut across a tomb.

Last Sunday night was another sleepless night, which dragged into a bleary-eyed, frantic Monday morning. By that evening, as I sat in my windowless office, completing a dishearteningly large stack of charts and documenting a series of disconcerting patient encounters, an epiphany struck me: I had not seen ray of sunlight all day. In fact, I had barely seen a drop of sunlight all month.

And not only that, but I was acutely (if mildly) depressed.

That realization first depressed me even further, but by the next (sleepless) morning, I began to fit the pieces together: could the insomnia, the anxiety, the depression be a consequence of decreased sunlight exposure? Could I be suffering from a variant of Seasonal Affective Disorder (with the appropriate acronym S.A.D.)?

Could the decreased sunlight exposure be causing my body to produce less endogenous melatonin, which thus threw a wrench in my normal circadian rhythm, which caused the insomnia, the restlessness, the anxiety, the depression, and so on?

Why have I not gotten any sunlight? For starters, this interminable Wyoming winter has left our town blanketed in snow, subzero temperatures, and a gritty gray haze for the last six weeks. (In fairness to Worland, everyone here says it's been an unusually bitter winter, just like it has been for Colorado.) Also, I've never spent a winter at such a northern latitude--not a whole lot further north than Greeley or Provo, but enough to stretch out the nights and shorten the days more than ever before. (Ty and Jeff: could this be why the Russian soul is so deep and dark, because they're so far north they never see the sun?) Next, my office and exam rooms have absolutely no natural lighting; the nearest window is through a door, around a corner, and down a hall, and I've rarely had the chance to escape my close confines, if even for a minute, during sunlight hours. Lastly, I've spent the last six weeks seeing patients either miserably sick with the flu or suffering from their own seasonal depression, both of which are insidiously contagious.


My illumination (or lack thereof) had the ring of truth, so Tuesday I put my theory to the test. I cancelled a lunch meeting and walked outside into cold but bright noon day sun. With hat, gloves and jacket on, I leaned against my car, closed my eyes, and turned my chilly face towards the sunlight. A warmth crept through my eyelids and under my skin, and in a few minutes, I had to smile and then laugh, an unforced, radiant joie de vivre that felt like exactly the medicine I needed. This chuckling and sun-soaking continued for a a few minutes, until the staring lady in the adjacent car nervously strapped her frightened child into the carseat and sped out of the parking lot. :)
The rest of the day and week have gone much better, as I've made a point to be outside with direct sunlight exposure as much as I can. More than anything else, the weather has lightened, even to what I might dare call a February thaw. (Please don't snow again!!!)

And I don't think I have S.A.D. What is Seasonal Affective Disorder, anyway, other than a name some psychiatrist gave to the observed phenomenon that some people get sad and anxious when they don't get enough sunlight?

What I find most interesting is that my body and subconscious mind figured out this problem long before I became aware of it, and even prodded me towards a "cure" through my sunlight craving. This is a perfect example of the natural, spontaneously healing that our bodies are capable of, and which can cure most human ailments. But that's another post . . .

I don't need medicine. I don't need counseling. I just need dang sunlight.

Another week in Costa Rica should do the trick.

Insomnia

Sleep should not be difficult. Sleep should be easy. Infants sleep instinctively for eighteen hours a day, no training required. Bears and chipmunks do it for months at a time. It is a basic, nightly, perfunctory activity. What do you do at the end of the day? You go to sleep.


Not me. These days, I go to bed, but not to sleep. I no longer possess this capacity. Sleep's mystery eludes me like a dream. (But I don't have those any more, either.) In fact, it's been over a month since I've had a night of continuous, restorative, blessed sleep.


I feel tired--extremely tired--as I turn out the light and my head hits the pillow. Then the all-night wrestling match with my brain begins. I cuddle with Elizabeth. I practice deep breathing. I pray. I utilize mental relaxation techniques. I even try counting sheep. But my brain continues to whirr and hum. I glance at the clock. It's 11:15, 12:46, 2:20, 4:00, 5:49, one sleepless minute rolling into the next, and then all too soon there's my alarm clock, crackling with the local country station into my sleep deprived ears. Time to wake up and exercise! But is it waking up if you never fell asleep in the first place?


I've had this insomnia problem ever since high school. I came to refer to myself as an "Insomna-maniac." It comes in spurts. I'll go months with regular, restful sleep, and then suddenly I'm swept into a vortex of insomnia that engulfs me for weeks at a time. I've blamed late basketball practices, snoring roommates, school stress, midnight snacking, weather patterns, residency hours, jet lag, anxiety. I've tried benadryl, nyquil, melatonin, herbal teas, relaxation techniques, ocean waves, diet restrictions, prayer. It's all pretty much useless.


The common denominator in these spells seems to be a pattern of relentless, purposeless brain activity. Ever see a freshly caught fish thrashing around helplessly in the bottom of a boat? That's my brain. Once, I lay awake all night with an old John Denver song playing an endless loop in my head. Why? Sure, I liked the song "Matthew," but after 30 repeats, hadn't I had enough? A few weeks ago, I annoyed my lovely wife when, at 3:00 am, I rolled out of bed to scratch down the lyrics to what seemed to be a brilliant, humorous song that I'd spent the last several hours composing. Strangely, it wasn't nearly as brilliant a few hours later. Often, it's anxieties that keep me awake, which is weird, because I rarely feel anxiety during the daytime. Maybe that's what's really going on: I've learned to suppress anxiety in my waking mind, and so it punishes me all night long. If I spend more time pulling my hair out in the day, could I get at least a few hours of sleep at night?


I used to fight these episodes, throw pillows at the wall and clocks in the trashcan, often panicking in the middle of the night when it became apparent that the sleep bus was passing me without stopping. But I've since learned to accept my fate: I let my brain have its fun, focus on my physical rest, and passively let the night slip away into morning.


The only sustained period of time in my whole life that I've not had insomnia problems was as a missionary. The highly regimented schedule, the exhausting work,

and undoubtedly some divine intervention let me sleep like a baby for two years. But otherwise, I hit these spells at least a few months out of every year.


My daughter, Joy, is the ultimate sleeper. She's out like a light within seconds of hitting the pillow, and she sleeps like a rock for 11 hours straight. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll wander into her room and watch her peaceful face in blissful sleep, and I feel vicarious contentment and a simultaneous envy. I think wistfully, "If only it were so easy."


To sleep, perchance to dream . . .