Sleeping Through the Night

I've never been particularly good at sleeping.  When my son was born eight years ago, it was not a big deal to me to be up four or five times in a night.  I've been a restless sleeper and insomniac most of my life, so I am pretty well acquainted with late-night TV shows, and the bizarre informercials that appear between 2 and 3 am.  As far as I'm concerned, Tivo is the greatest invention known to mankind, ranking right up their with fire and the printing press.  It has, on more than one occasion, prevented me from unnecessarily purchasing some device or another hawked by Ron Popeil or Victoria Jackson.

When I do sleep, my husband can always tell if I'm stressed by the horrific teeth-grinding that goes on.  My husband describes it at as something akin to a recycling trucking being driven right through our bedroom.  I woke myself up with it once, and was super-annoyed that someone upstairs was moving furniture at 4 am, only to realize that we didn't have an upstairs and that sound was emanating from inside my head. 

I was a little surprised when my doctor suggested that I might have sleep apnea, and ordered a sleep study for me.  Snoring has not been a problem as far as I know, and as far as my husband will tell me.  He's more concerned about my grinding my teeth down to little nubs and needing dentures by the time I'm fifty.  At any rate, the doctor seemed to think that this could be the cause of a persistent cough I've had for about 3 months now, and ordered me to go to a sleep clinic for a test.

I decided to take the plunge and go for the sleep study, after looking through the booklet on sleep disorders that they sent me.  They described the teeth-grinding as "bruxism" and I thought that they could probably figure out if I need some kind of treatment for that, if nothing else.

I arrived at 10 pm one Friday night at a SleepMed center, with my pajamas, toothbrush, and a copy of Van Jones' new book, The Green Collar Economy to keep me company.  I wasn't sure what to expect. 

I waited in the lobby for about 20 minutes with a father and son duo who were clutching pillows brought from home and nervously leafing through tattered copies of "Car and Driver" magazine.  I wondered if I should have brought a pillow.  The waiting room was pleasant enough, with brown walls adorned with brighly colored koi fish paintings on a black background.  They were vaguely reminiscent of black velvet paintings that you can pick up on the side of the road in West Texas border towns, the kind that usually feature Elvis, crying clowns and big-breasted women riding unicorns.  I had never seen a velvet painting with an Asian theme.  Perhaps it's an untapped market.

I was pondering how one might break into the Asian-themed velvet painting market when a portly man in scrubs called me and led me to my room for the night.  It was a cross between a hospital room and a well-appointed Holiday Inn.  There was a big double-bed, a dresser, a nightstand, and not much else, other than some ominous looking wires hanging from the wall and a camera attached to one wall.  A female technician came in and told me to get ready for bed and go to the restroom, and then she would start hooking me up to the sleep monitors.

She hooked me up to about 20 monitoring electrodes using cold, white paste that reminded me of the kind of paste we used in elementary school that came in little jars with a wand sticking in them.  There was always at least one weird kid who would lick the paste wand and gross everyone out.  The paste didn't look very appetizing.

She pasted the electrodes to my face, my hair, my neck and to my legs (looking for signs of Restless Leg Syndrome, which evidently is a real disorder and not something made up by pharmaceutical companies to extend the life of their drug patents).  The paste was cold and icky, and I wasn't sure I would be able to sleep with all this gear on.  There was no mirror in the room, which I'm sure was on purpose so that patients wouldn't run screaming into the night after catching a glimpse of themselves looking like Medusa Gone Electric. 

The technician explained to me that the doctor had listed me as a "mandatory CPAP" study, so halfway through the night, I would be awoken and forced to put on a nose mask CPAP that would force air up my nose.  She informed me that I could sleep for 3 hours, but at some point, I needed to roll over on my side or they would wake me up and tell me to roll.  Another technician came in and fitted me for the CPAP, and made me do some crazy facial movements, humming, blowing, and wiggling my face around. At one point, I began to suspect that this wasn't really part of the sleep test, but was being done for the amusement of the techs in the computer monitoring room, who were probably laughing their asses off right about now.

After she plugged me into the socket in the wall, I got in bed and read for a while, before trying to fall asleep.  As a lark, I took a picture of myself with my cell phone and text-messaged it over to my husband and son, and telling them good night. 

It was hard to fall asleep, because I kept worrying that as soon as I was out, someone would tell me to roll over.  I was about half asleep, when I decided to roll onto my side, and I think I may have unplugged a few wires.  The next thing I knew, the technician came in and slapped a mask on me and said it was time for my CPAP.  I guess I must have complied with the rolling over and sitting up requirements.  I wasn't sure if this was a sleep test or doggie obedience training.

The CPAP mask fit tightly over my nose, and around my head, and it basically blew air up my nose and made a loud humming noise.  I was told to keep my mouth closed and breathe normally while sleeping.  It felt like I was about to go sleep-snorkeling.  Did I ever mention how much I hate snorkeling?

It took at least a half hour to try to get to sleep again, and all I kept thinking was how much I hated this CPAP thing and that choking in my sleep might be preferable.  Eventually, I did fall asleep, just in time for the technician to come in and wake me up.   

I asked the female technician in the morning how I did and she said, "You'll have to ask your doctor.  We did detect some snoring."

"Some snoring"? Is that like my husband's operatic Return of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre snoring? Or a light buzz like bees happily frolicking in a meadow?  I have no idea since the technician clammed up after that, as though she'd said too much already.

It was probably the worst night's sleep I have ever had, including the time when my son was a newborn.  Waking up for 2 am and 4 am feedings was a joy in comparison to waking up to have air forced up my nose.  I read somewhere that for new parents, "sleep is the new sex."  I think that applies to old parents as well, since I don't think my husband I ever caught up on the sleep we were deprived of when our son was a baby.

I left the sleep center and groggily drove home, bypassing a very inviting drive-thru Starbucks on the way.  My son and husband were getting ready for a soccer game when I stumbled in, and I waved them off and told them they would have to go it alone.

"How was the sleep test?" my son asked.

"I think I flunked," I said.

He looked at me quizzically, as I stumbled into bed, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.  Whether or not "some snoring" ensued is anybody's guess.

Original post to the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.