When Linda-Marie and I started talking about sleep, I danced around the topic but landed squarely on my wish to the universe: I want to die in my sleep.

I want to ease into heaven quietly without drama or fuss. Close my eyes and yield to my need for permanent quiet.

I have witnessed disease pummel the spirit of my father, my mother-in-law, my uncle, too many friends, the pain screaming with abandon inside the body, demanding attention not just from the person who is ill, but from their loved ones nearby.

I contrast this to my Aunt Pat who late in life went to sleep in her own bed after an ordinary day and at some point during the night, her spirit ascended and her body stayed.

I recognize it may come down to luck or fate but 50 years from now, when I close my eyes one last time, I love the idea of my time on earth winding down naturally, without a fuss, and ending in a whispered, "good night."

I am not sure why I think this is even remotely likely to happen given the fact I am an insomniac. I average 4-6 hours of fractured sleep. I function fine on 5, can run my body a week on 4 and a few times a year have a stretch of 3 or fewer hours of sleep per night. I will not go on drawing on hope for more sleep if seriously deprived. I pop an Ambien and make it so.

Solid sleep has been elusive for me since I was 7 and I don’t fully understand why. I developed a rabid, fearful resistance to falling asleep. I have been hooked up to machines, probed, scanned, undergone hypnosis and a variety of therapeutic approaches including avoiding therapy for a decade all in search of a calm, good night's sleep.

Having chronic insomnia takes a toll on a young body and contributed to my body breaking down 2 months before graduating high school. I developed epilepsy and my neurologist established a causal link to body stress and sleep deprivation as a primary trigger. In time, I learned to use biofeedback to successfully control and ultimately prevent seizures. By my mid-twenties I developed type 2 narcolepsy. Type 2 is controllable, but for me, this means on any given day, I will have one, or possibly two very short (30 sec-2 minute) naps. I have had to say on more than one occasion to a friend, “it isn’t you, I just need a nap”

My micro-naps are deeply satisfying - my mind rides a jet-stream to a satiating sleep bath. I have a distinct pre-nap aura where my body feels like a turned rain stick. I feel a sensation of 1000 grains of sedating energy pouring downward from the inside of my skull until I am full, weighted, and I close my eyes, accepting the fated nap. I wake a literal minute or two later, my rainstick empty, vigor and energy returned.

My fear of sleep was born, in part, out of a visceral dream I had when I was a small girl. Eyes closed, mid-dream, I awoke to find the devil at the foot of my bed. He was staring at me, imposing, dark and scary. I hiccupped as I tried to call for help, believing death was imminent. I let out a hysterical wordless scream as I jumped from my bed. I ran into a table, then a wall. The devil blocked my path and seemed to appear in front of me with every pivot. I saw a faint light and realized it was coming from the doorway upstairs. I knew I must get there. I made it up the stairs where my parents found me, still screaming.

I slept with a light on until my thirties. My husband helped me walk through my fear of going to sleep in the dark. Still, until my forties, I kept my great grandfather’s billy club or knife under my bed. I still have that billy club in my nightstand.

In the process of massaging my wounded, fearful spirit, I discovered I had the ability to come in and out of a dream and make changes to get a more satisfying experience. I would stay with a handsome lover longer or see what may happen if someone in my dream took a different path. Just this morning, I returned to a dream where my youngest son and I were exploring the quiet halls within a vast brick warehouse. I woke as we were wandering down a long and tall gray hallway with entrances at varied heights obscuring what might be inside. I kept my head on my pillow, aware of the fleeting choice to start the day or return for more of the story. I closed my eyes and mentally burrowed in, recalling where I left off and willed my son and I to explore further down the hall. It worked! My son jumped up and entered a room too high for me. He went in fearlessly and called to me from deep in the room but I could not see him. Somehow the lights came on and I was standing up in the entrance looking down at him 100 yards away. He was holding up his arms, waving at me from a stage. Many of my dreams are wonderful and spark ideas for my writing. My favorite mornings are those like this morning when I linger in bed, going back into my dream to stretch out the stories I don't want to end.

I wonder if dreams may be a portal we are able to enter and return to later after we die. Why not? When my kids were young and couldn’t sleep, I would tell them to close their eyes and see in their mind a favorite place we’ve been to, like Mayflower beach. We would talk about the soft sand, playing frisbee, body surfing. Upon leaving, I would kiss their foreheads and whisper, "Meet me at the beach in your dream!"

I wish for me and my loved ones that I'm not burdened by physical and mental suffering when I'm near death. I hope for an ordinary quiet final night’s sleep and maybe, in a dream or heaven or both, to meet up with my loved ones and raise a glass, share a laugh, and go on an adventure together.

Read Linda-Marie's Story