Every Little Step I Take: My side of the bed

As we age, I learn the true meaning of 'old age is not for sissies'. Today we had an opportunity to observe another indication that life is catching up with us.

This shot obviously has nothing to do with the blog topic but that I'm talking about Ron, and this is Ron, all bundled up, heading off to work on this coolish November morning. All the photos today are in sequence, in that they were taken in succession as the morning progressed. While I wrote, the fog drew closer and closer.

Ron's always slept on the left side of the bed, and even before Ron was in my life, I was a right side sleeper. Like a beetle with a magnet embedded in my shell to ensure I never face East, I sleep facing West and I'm learning that's pretty entrenched.

At 5:30, there is scarcely a car on the road, and although the stars and moon were out, and the skies were clear, the sun never really dawned.

When Ron's shoulder started bothering him, a couple of months ago, we went through a lot of possibles, as to what could have caused it, and what could we do to help heal him. While he was away for the better part of a month, I moved the bedroom around and also switched our nightstands, signalling 'the change'.

Off to the East, a low, dark cloudbank rolled in over the island, coming over Oak Bay, then downtown and soon, it will sock us in, here by the base in Esquimalt.

We were officially switching sides of the bed.

When Ron got back, he was relieved to see that his needs had been heard, and he was excited and hopeful that sleeping on the opposite side to what he was used to, meant that he would then be able to keep his weight off his sore shoulder and sleep through the night for a change.

I love that even though dawn never really dazzled us, I managed to catch it through the windows of the seaplane coming into Victoria Harbour

He's been home a week and in that week, I have beaten up my nightstand five times. I roll over, reach for him and hit wood.

In the meantime, he is sleeping facing me, so now instead of a broad strong back to nuzzle up against, I have a morning mouth face snuffling at me, or if I hunker down to nuzzle his chest, my 5foot 10 and 3/4 body starts having a battle with the really solid bed's footboards, which have no intention of letting my size 13 dogs, win.

You can see, it looks like dark grey dry ice fake fog, but no. It's real alright. And the sun's edge is chasing it. The higher the sun rises, the closer the fogbank approaches, a race that the sun has yet to win today.

I wake up with wrists bruised and sore from my railing them on the nightstand and more often than not, just get up. I put on my kaftan, go to the bathroom and then I'm bright eyed and bushy tailed awake. Wandering into the living room, I refer to the clock to get a bearing and its a quarter to 5. I stay up. A pot of coffee and some quiet time is in order by then and I have a couple of hours before Ron is up for work.

Looking towards Metchosin as the cresting sun hits the windows on the far shore.

Its challenging enough to be in that joyful part of middle age where my hot flashes, or what Ron calls my 'Tropical Vacations' are blindsiding me, left and right. All night long, the one leg out rules under the down filled duvet, and every half hour I flip back the covers over Ron so that I can bask in the cold air of the November room.