Ol' Crazy Legs

I have Restless Legs Syndrome. That's the formal name for it. It's not an affliction on a par with Lou Gehrig's, but the medical term makes it easier to talk about than having to say I routinely kick my wife each night for no good reason.

That's what Restless Leg Syndrome is, kicking involuntarily each night, often in one's sleep. Kicking, twitching, spasming, call it what you will. My wife calls it "Fight Like A Girl Syndrome." Apparently, when she was young, boys who kicked during an altercation were told by their peers that they fought like girls. I've asked her not to call it "Fight Like A Girl Syndrome," because that only aids and comforts America's enemies. Never let terrorists know American men fight like females, or simulate as much in their slumber. That's just the kind of weakness they're looking to exploit. Have we learned nothing from our Viet Nam years, when giving aid and comfort to the enemy was a weekly exercise in treason on our college campuses?

There is no known universal cure for Restless Legs. Different antidotes seem to work for different people. Nothing seems to work for me. This ordinarily wouldn't bother me since I'm asleep when my legs are most active. But waking up to a rested content wife makes for a happy marriage, and I wake to one who is tired, bruised, battered and bitter.

We're much too young to do the separate bed thing. I'll agree to that when we both need the extra mattress room for colostomy bags. For now I've simply given her my old hockey pads and asked that she make the best of it.

As for the causes of Restless Legs Syndrome, there are different theories. One view is that it's caused by caffeine, another says it's a lack of exercise, and finally, there's the iron deficiency theory. My wife says, with my frenzied leg movement each night, I get plenty of exercise, so no additional efforts are needed there. As for iron, its true that from time to time I've been found to be anemic, but after my doctor referred to iron tablets as "ladies' pills," I was unable to swallow them. Every time I tried, images of McCall's Magazine subscription cards flashed through my mind and the gag reflex kicked in.

I'll never be able to test the caffeine theory. I can't hang up the coffee mug. Coffee is part of a daily spiritual practice. Some pursue Yoga, I practice Java. Decaffeinated, you say?  I'd sooner hand over my boys to New Guinea slave traders (under the condition that they be used for labor, not eaten by tribesmen. The thought of trying to enjoy a Guatemalan dark roast while imagining my children's shrunken heads worn as ceremonial talismans leaves a bitter taste not unlike sipping an acidic Costa Rican blend.)

No, I've decided I'm willing to live with Restless Legs Syndrome. I've even gotten a hold of a special card for my wallet that states my condition, in case this information would ever prove helpful to emergency room doctors.    

("We have a car accident victim, Doc. His wallet has a Restless Legs card. What do we do?"  "Everyone stand back. Approach him from the shoulders only. He'll kick without warning. I've had his wife in here twice this week.")

I should mention that I attended my first Restless Legs support group recently. We were a group of a dozen men. The wives who dropped us off could be seen, out our meeting room windows, limping back to their respective vehicles. As we watched them with glum expressions, Doug, our facilitator, said we needed to understand that we're not alone, and that part of leading a successful life will mean accentuating the positive. He told the story of a restless legs victim who inadvertently kicked his wife awake allowing her to spot sparks coming from their electric blanket, something she would never have noticed otherwise. He also told the story of a man who put his wife in a hospital with a devastating kick to her stomach resulting in an emergency room X-ray that revealed early stage cancer. This was immediately treated and her life was saved. I, meanwhile, was able to tell the story of the night my wife took seven kicks to her knees in rapid succession and jumped out of bed swearing to sleep in a motel room the remainder of the week. As she stepped out to the curb to get in her car she spotted a raccoon in the street. I yelled out the window how neat it must be to see those nocturnal creatures up close. She didn't say anything, but I know she too found a simple pleasure in encountering one of God's furry creatures, a shy mammal she never would have seen had she slept the night away.

Restless Legs Syndrome is something I'm learning to live with. Years ago, when we knew less about it, incessantly kicking a spouse would have resulted in getting divorced at best, institutionalized at worst. We're a more enlightened society today. Each morning, as my wife lies surrounded by ice packs, I can pack my lunch and go out the door knowing she understands this is an affliction I did not seek, and one I am victimized by as well. It's nice, however, that at least the kicking doesn't wake me up, so that one of us is well rested and able to take on the day. As I head out the door I always remind her we should be grateful for that.