:: Saturday, November 28, 2009 6:44 AM ::

OXYMORON

They called it a "sleep lab" and I was being referred there by an ENT. No, not an Ent, like Treebeard in Lord of the Rings -- rather, an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist I sought out because I snore like a sawmill (actually just one of about twenty different categories of sound I produce during sleep) and Gloria is a light sleeper. Of late, the love of my life had also become increasingly alarmed and frustrated at my tendency to stop breathing for extended periods -- Obstructive Sleep Apnea, or OSA. She has threatened, at times, to extend one of my breathless OSA episodes to infinity if I didn't do something about the snoring. Good ol' Glor -- always joking...

I have been blissfully ignorant of all this pathology, first-hand at least, as I have oinked, honked and wheezed my way through each night, either beside my loving bride or in that special room across the hall designated, not "guest room," but rather "snoring room." Ah, romance! I'm generally sawing logs within 5 to 20 minutes of retiring, but most mornings, Gloria, droopy-eyed and less-than-perky, would deliver her morning-after assessment of my performance in bed -- and I don't mean making nik-nik.

Drastic times call for drastic measures and so it was that I entered LDS Hospital at 8:p.m. on Tuesday night for a split-polysomnography; sounded more to me like it had something to do with torturing parrots.

With two of my own pillows tucked securely under my arm and an overnight bag in hand, I checked-in at the Emergency Room (a portent if there ever was one) and was directed to the Sleep Study Lab. I hadn't known what to expect, but my mind had conjured-up a special secluded area designed to promote a rapid descent into the realms of Hypnos and Oniros: sound-proofed, mood-lit, perhaps some hint of a soothing aromatheraputic fragrance in the air, with the necessary monitoring equipment discreetly tucked behind mirrored-glass. What greeted me, however, was a clinical, jumbled, computer-hub-surrounded-by-hospital-rooms arrangement with mixed fluorescent and incandescent lighting and two semi-bored lab technicians -- Matt and Debbie -- in scrubs. Did I mention this was only my second night away from Gloria since we remarried? Darlin', I miss ya already!

Debbie, a rather dumpy, androgynous, olive-complexioned thirty-to-fortysomething (with a sweet spirit, I'm sure), delivered the requisite ream of paperwork for me to fill out and told me to change into my nightwear. Noticing there was no restroom present, I asked for directions. "Across the hall," I was told. The room was tiled with a wash basin and commode. Looking more closely, I noticed there was also a shower "facility," meaning a curtain, shower head, knobs and a floor drain, sans tub. I doubt it was used much, owing to the volume of spots and spatters of God-knows-what on the floor. I'd save the shower for once I got home. Standing there was bad enough.

Time to "get wired." Matt and Debbie, each with a fistful of electrodes and wires began the arduous process of gluing the electrodes to various parts of my scalp, forehead, earlobes, chin, neck, chest and legs. Wire leads ran to some kind of distribution box with a laniard to go around my neck, "In case you need to go mobile," said Debbie, meaning the inevitable 2:00 a.m. visit back across the hall to that hellish bathroom. Two clips were placed on the index and ring fingers of my left hand for monitoring oxygen levels.

"Too bad I didn't bring my camera," I said.

"Oh, we have a camera," Matt replied.

I was told to relax for awhile, so, with a little help from Debbie, I swung onto the bed, on top of the covers, and picked up the book I had brought with me (Wicked -- The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire). Too soon, however, Debbie was back with the nasal mask I would be wearing during the second half of my polysomnography.

"Let's try this on and let you get used to it," she said, fitting it over my nose and securing it with bands around my head. "Do you get claustrophobic?" she asked?

"I've been known to," I replied without telling her that the room, not to mention the entire hospital, had accomplished that task a long time ago.

I lay there, breathing out and in through my nose, watching the vapor condense and evaporate on the inside of the clear plastic mask and telling myself, over and over, "There's plenty of air, there's plenty of air..." I thought of my friend, Paul, who had recently undergone a sleep study of his own. He had told me about how cute his technician was (different hospital) and how he had really enjoyed it when she bent over to adjust his mask. Somehow, Debbie's moustache was what caught my eye as she adjusted mine. "There is plenty of air..." Paul had told me that his facial structure had required him to wear a full-face mask. "...Plenty of air, there's plenty of air..." He now has a 'Talk to me, Goose' label on his home CPAP and pretends he is Tom Cruise every night as he gets ready for bed. His wife joins in the fantasy. "...air! ...air!..."

I tried reading without glasses, with mask, with electrodes, with claustrophobia. Finally, Debbie returned to remove the mask. This time I closed my eyes. I could still see her moustache.

Ten o' clock... maybe a little news before sleep. The TV set, bracketed to the wall near the ceiling, gave forth a really snowy picture, but at least I could hear the sound and watch Dick Nourse's nose while wondering if he snored even worse than I. After the weather (also snow), I went back to my book.

I was actually getting kind of drowsy when Debbie appeared and asked,"Ready?"

"Sure. One more trip across the hall." After the minor production of gathering up wires and putting the box and laniard back around my neck, I shuffled back to purgatory, certain that it wouldn't be my last visit.

Next came calibration. I was told to lie very still, then to look to the left and to the right, left, right, now up and down, up, down, widen my eyes and make a big grin, bare my teeth, flex my toes downward, then upward, breath in, out, in, out, in, now hold it. So much for being drowsy.

Debbie tucked me in, closed the door and turned out the light. I lay on my back for a minute, then rolled onto my left side and tried to approximate my usual drift-off position. Naturally, my brain kicked into high gear. Was all this going to work? Would I really get to spend an entire night with Gloria? Would I ever get used to this damn clip pinching my left ring finger? After fifteen or twenty minutes, I rolled to my right side, readjusted as many wires and cables as I could and sensed several conflicting inklings in my gut: despair for sleep combined with Tony's Pizza. I listened to the unfamiliar sounds within and without.This was going to be a long night.

I won't bore you with the details, the thoughts I used to try and trick myself into sleep, the sounds I heard -- and made -- while lying there, the messages my bladder was sending, as well. The last time I checked my watch, it was 12:30 -- two hours and not a wink.

I finally drifted off into an uneasy dream about the failure of my sleep study. At two, the door opened and Debbie came in and matter-of-factly announced that it was time to begin the second part of my split parrot -- or something like that. "I'll be back in a minute, I said." At least, without glasses or contacts, I couldn't see the floor of the restroom.

Debbie strapped me into my nose mask. The positive airflow of the CPAP made talking difficult. I started to say, "I really don't think I got much sleep," but on the "n" of "don't," my uvula slammed into my nasopharynx and I finished the sentence sounding like a bad imitation of fish language. Debbie didn't wait around for translation.

I lay there in the semi-darkness, breathing in and out of my nose and being somewhat surprised that I was no longer claustrophobic. I experimented with the way the airflow worked and found that I could divert it out of my mouth so as to come very close to a whistle. I doubted, however, that my scientific experimentation was having any positive effect on the sleep study, so I settled for a few low-register toots and gave up the effort. There IS plenty of air!

"It's six a.m. This concludes your sleep study," Debbie was in my room and I was amazed to realize that I had actually slept.

"Did it work?"

"We got all the data we needed. We had to take it right to the limit on the first half. You didn't start showing any signs of apnea until about one a.m."

"And what about the snoring? Did the mask work"

"Yep, worked just fine."

Yippee!

I drowsily filled-out more paperwork, dressed and departed, wondering how I was going to stay awake at work. At least I could go home and use my own shower first.

So I wait. My ENT hasn't called with the results, but I'm sure that before long I, too, will be able to play Tom Cruise games before bedtime with Gloria, followed by a refreshing night of sleep for the both of us. And hopefully, in time, I'll be able to wear the mask without recalling Debbie's moustache.

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