(William Shakespeare reference)
It is nearly 5:30 in the morning here on the east coast as I begin writing this. I have been up all night without the benefit of stimulants. No, I am merely in one of my all too frequent weird sleep cycles. I still get my required seven, eight hours of sleep, largely uninterrupted, but at this moment it is as if I am working the graveyard shift, getting home just in time to doze off at about 8AM.
I thought at one time I knew the reason for this. It began to happen, after all, only after I came home from my original surgery and began my subsequent chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I KNEW, for example, that the steroid included with my chemo cocktail was keeping me awake for at least 24 hours, or so it seemed. I KNEW that my wife could wake up expecting to find a house that was virtually sterile in its cleanliness (ok, let's not go that far). I KNEW that while I was in the hospital for those two weeks of glee I was awakened at least every four hours so that my lovely nurses could verify that I was alive, that I had blood, that I had blood pressure, that I had a heart beat, that I had sufficient insulin but not too much, and, most importantly I came to believe, that I was awake.