Sleeping with the Elephant Man

My column today will be a bit of a snoozer but that is its own blessing. In the waking nightmare that is the present age, sleep offers us a welcome chance to escape to the Land of Nod.

Unfortunately, not all of us are born equally proficient at tele-porting there. Millions of Americans suffer from sleep apnea, a condition that can increase the chance of heart attack or stroke, not to mention fitful turns in the night that alarm the cat.

I had always thought myself as one of the favored few for whom sleep came easily. As I tried to tell the doctor examining my throat the other day, I sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Of course, the innocent are not happy about this.

They sometimes come into my dreams and say, “How come you are sleeping so well, you unworthy snoozer who is far from innocent and guilty of numerous crimes, many of them grammatical?” Then I snore a loud blast and they go away.

But the doctor suggested I be tested for sleep apnea. When she had looked down my throat, she thought my tonsils and palate looked odd, possibly suggesting a blockage of air. “Do you ever get tired during the day?” she asked. Well, yes, I like a nap in the afternoon. It would be a shame to waste a natural talent for grabbing 40 winks.

And so it was arranged. I would spend the night at a sleep disorder clinic.

I am telling you this because my fate may be yours one day, so prevalent is the condition. Say not for whom the alarm clock tolls, it tolls for thee.

My pal Mike warned me what could happen: “Hey, Reg, they are going to fit you up for a mask and a tube like an elephant’s trunk. You are unattractive as it is. Just wait till your wife gets a load of that.”

I was still confident that I had no problem, but I believe in humoring doctors, armed as they are with needles and sharp instruments.

When I made the appointment, the receptionist said I could wear any sort of pajamas but please wear something. “You’d be amazed how many people sleep naked,” she said. I told her the nights are not dark enough for me to be naked.

On the appointed evening, I had dinner at home and arrived at the clinic at 9 p.m. No windows were visible and it was weirdly quiet. I was told other patients were staying the night but they were hidden away.

Once in my room, I changed into the much-desired pajamas. Shortly afterward, a friendly sleep technologist came in to wire me up so that my every move would be recorded.

Prisoners going to the electric chair aren’t wired up as much.

Some 27 leads were attached to my body. Then we had to go through a drill to see if all the sensors worked. Put your left foot up, put your right arm down, do the hokey pokey and turn the data all around, that’s what it’s all about.

If I wanted to summon help in the night, I was told all I had to do was speak. No button, just speak. The night crew, watching my movements on a hidden camera, would respond.

I hit the hay at 11 p.m. after reading a book (not “Goodnight Moon"). The bed was comfy and I slept well, or so I thought. At 2 a.m., nature called and I spoke.

The technologist responded immediately and helped attach all my leads to a movable gantry so I could go to the bathroom. I felt like Marley’s ghost with all his chains. The lights came back on about 6 a.m.

I got the results back last week. The doctor said I had “significant” sleep apnea. At one point in the night, I had stopped breathing for 74 seconds.

Whoa! That got my attention. I couldn’t hold my breath for 74 seconds. I could imagine the chatter going on at the monitoring station. “Hey, Marge, if this keeps up, do you want to go in and give him the kiss of life? I did it last time.” Marge says, “You sure he is wearing pajamas?”

So it seems my pal Mike is right. I appear to be headed for a continuous positive airway pressure (CPAP) machine and the jaunty look of the Elephant Man. At least I won’t die of sleep apnea. No, it will probably be lack of spousal affection.