A writer for The New York Times asks: Ten years after diagnosis, could I finally dispense with chemical sleeping aids?

A succession of infections, surgeries to cope with them, and umpteen rounds of antibiotics and chemotherapy, not to mention all-pervasive fear of my imminent mortality, kept me coming back to renew my prescription. Every month I appeared at the pharmacy, plunking down my driver’s license and credit card. Without the pills, I could no more sleep than elephants can fly.

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