I have spent the last two and a half weeks going off the sleeping pill, Ambien. If you read this blog regularly, you will know that I have an adversarial relationship with my physician, Dr. Mengele, who said I could take Ambien for the rest of my life but then changed his mind at some point (after he got over his divorce).
For all of his semi-annual castigations of my sleep habits, I held firm and said, "Thank you very much, but I'm going to continue." And I did.
It is Dr. Magic, whose alarm showed on his ever congruent face when I told him I had been taking Ambien for years, that changed my mind. "You need to be clear headed," he said, or something on that order.
I do care about being clear-headed, but being sleep deprived doesn't get you there either. It's a conundrum.
And I take loads of statins and no one says, "You need to be clear-hearted. Let's see what your heart would be like without the statins."
Anyway, I didn't sleep and didn't sleep and then, finally, I slept, and I thought okay. I'm okay without the damned Ambien.
I like Dr. Magic a whole lot more than I like Dr. Mengele, but then I've always preferred magic to the scientific, the artful to the ingenuous, the irrational to the rational.
And sometimes vice versa.