Fear Factor

"Ok buddy, it's good night time."

"Can you stay for a bit? And can I stay in your cosy bed?"

The light is dim, the comics have been read. It was Free Comic Book Day recently and we've hit the motherload and veered away from our standard DC SuperFriends and Tiny Titans (the greatest comic book ever written for wee kids). I read an excerpt from a hilarious Simpson's comic, but made a deal that I wouldn't have to read the horrible Futurama one that follows and traded for some Robert Munsch instead.

We sleep head to head, his too-long bangs grazing his mink-thick eyelashes, my bobby pin typically askew. I don't mean to fall asleep next to him, but the scene is often so peaceful, so full of absolute love that I am lulled to gentle slumber, knowing full well in the back of my mind I have a story to file for tomorrow.

Not quite two hours later I wake slightly, examine the clock and wearily decide that I will wake up early to sneak the story in. I pull on the chain of the bedside lamp that's glaring in my eyes and soon I am back to sleep.

I do not consider the detrimental effect this extinction of light will cause moments later. I fail to remember that his sleep is precarious; that the sleep gods do not like to be disturbed and often take hold of his brain in protest.

I awake to terrified screaming. He's calling for me. I'm right here, I assure him, but we are not in the same dimension. He is trapped in a world I cannot see. His eyes are open, his face heart-breakingly fearful, body trembling. He tries to grasp something where the pillow lays. Briefly, he seems to see me, except I am the headboard. I stay constant, recalling my husband's advice, wracked with his own night terrors 30 years ago: "Just be tender and comfort him."

His eyes are wide open, tears of fright streaming down his face. He moves around the bed, trying to escape a phantom menace, tearing at his face. I rub his back. "I am here lovey, Mommy is right here, you are safe, you are safe, it's just a dream..." I try a variety of word combinations, wondering if there is some magic safe word that breaks the spell and returns my son to me.

Tonight Batman was there too, in this wakeful dream. Or he wanted Batman, I'm not sure. One thing is consistent with the terrors, he is always calling for me. It's the part that makes me feel the most helpless, as I am right there to provide comfort, yet he is so far away mentally and can't connect with my physical presence.

"It will be over soon, it will be over soon," I chant to myself. I mentally go through pages of websites and readings on the differences between night terrors and nightmares. If you don't know, you've never witnessed a night terror. A nightmare is an annoying disturbance in the night. A night terror happens within the first two or three hours of falling asleep and scars a parent for life.

He finds his thumb, soothes himself and I am elated. It's over, I think, but no sooner do I think this then it starts anew. House-shaking shrieks. I try to hold him and rock him like a baby. It seems to help. When he seems calm enough I take him to the bathroom. This I remember from my own childhood nightmares, which plague me to this day. The body's urge to pee must be obeyed, and in a deep sleep the nightmare is sometimes the body's way of trying to wake you up.

He sucks his thumb and puts his head on my shoulder, his limp body letting me know the worst is over. I gingerly place him in his bed beside mine, realizing that we can't get rid of the gates lest he hurt himself during an episode, wondering how we will deal with this once he and his sister are back in the same room.

I lumber downstairs to my laptop.