LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOUT: A Rehoboth Journal Counting Blessings Instead of Sheep |
by Fay Jacobs |
I dropped my spouse off at Johns Hopkins Sleep Clinic last Thursday. She was told to arrive with a good book and her pajamas. Talk about envy. Shed be snuggling up with Patricia Cornwell, while I was home on laundry and doggy duty (thats d-u-t-y, but you never know). Sure, she was probably having little electrodes glued to her forehead as I was pulling into my driveway, but I was greeted by mounds of dirty laundry, the phone ringing with a magazine solicitation, and a dog running through the backyard with a brassiere hanging out of his mouth. Give me the electrodes. Please! After chasing down the laundry thief I secured the hamper perimeter and collapsed on the sofa. Bonnie wants to know why shes having trouble sleeping? Blue Cross should save big bucks and just ask me. Shes not sleeping because lifes nuts. Our dog is old, the puppys an underwear klepto, my mother-in-law used our Visa Card at Bingo World, weve got a Hoover upright that doesnt suck, and a White House intern that does. We should sleep? Maybe its that were suing for the right to park at our own condo (dont ask), theyve recalled the Subaru, our lawn belongs in the Shock Trauma Burn Unit, the Redskins have the worst record since Lyndon Johnson was president, national Boycott-the-Media- Day flopped since the press didnt publicize it, Ken Starr took another document dump, and we dont know if the Y2K bug will kill our computer or just screw up our microwave popcorn. Is it any wonder we wake up six times a night hoping we turned off the sprinkler, mailed the taxes and gave the pills to the right dog? If we were sleeping soundly, Id worry wed lost touch with reality. Actually, I have no idea how Bonnie will answer at the clinic when they ask why shes not sleeping, because the truth is, its me thats not sleeping. Now before I blab, please know I have a signed spousal release, giving me literary license for full disclosure without risking domestic tranquility, on the chance that readers might relate. My spouse snores. Im doing 16 years to life with a nightly half hour of tossing and turning to what sounds like a squadron of Canada Honkers. Then I grab my pillow, one or more dogs and harumph off to the guest room. In hindsight, buying a cheap guestroom mattress, ("Heck, we dont want guests to be comfortable for more than a day or two anyway") was flawed logic. At any rate, my only respite from frequent chiropractic is to fall asleep first. But even if I do manage to drop off, Im generally awakened several times a night by the QE II Fog Horn. Or Harpo Marx, back from the dead and in bed with us. Then, I wind up gently shaking Bonnie and whispering the most universally uttered marital phrase after "I Do""Honey, turn over, youre snoring." Failing to produce quiet, I resort to karate chops, after which Bonnie usually harumphs to the guest room. This being the case, I fail to see how the sleep clinic, despite high-tech video, audio and body sensor surveillance, can get the complete picture without monitoring my defensive sleeping skills. Heck, theyd have to wire up the dogs, too. Cant you just see some HMO Administrator trying to preauthorize that. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I promised Bonnie Id reveal that once I do fall sleep Ive been known to exert flapjack-like flips with such force that we had to sell the waterbed because I regularly launched the cat into the hall. Ringling Brothers would have loved it. There, Bonnie, I hope youre happy.) Well, at least the clinic will be able to determine whether my significant snorer has something called Sleep Apnea. Thats where some people actually stop breathing during the night and wake themselves up gasping for air. Its either Apnea or a nightmare about being made to sit through the musical RENT again. If shes got Apnea, no wonder she feels lousy in the morning. My anxiety that she has it is just one more thing to keep me awake. Anyway, I pictured Bonnie at the clinic, enjoying her N.Y. Times Best Seller, then dropping off into REM sleep, fluttering eyelids observed on TV by Clooneyish interns. The dogs and I turned off the lights, locked the door and went to bed. Why is it that the second Im home alone, I hear Freddy Kruger shimmying up the A/C vents? I thought Sixty Minutes moved to midnight but it was just the bedside clock. It was so quiet I could do a traffic count on I-95a road I had no idea was even in proximity. While the room was snoreless, it was a miserable, lonesome night. Bonnie arrived home the next evening with news that "they wired me up like the Bride of Frankenstein, put a red light on my finger (ET, call home), stuck a tube up my nose and told me to have a good nights sleep." "How could you?" I asked. "I dont know," she said, "but I slept like a baby. Then they woke me up for cereal and a banana, told me to read a while, then asked me to take a nap, then woke me up and told me to watch Rosie, then told me it was naptime, then woke me up for lunch and Oprah, and..." Was this a hospital or a Club Med spa? In honor of October 11, Coming Out Day, Bonnie answered questions accordingly: Doctor: "How long have you been having trouble sleeping?" Bonnie: "Actually, its my partner whos having trouble sleeping." Doctor: "Oh, whats his problem? Bonnie: "Well, she says..." Its going to take several weeks for data tabulation, diagnosis and suggested remedies. Meanwhile, were trying a tip from the clinic. Since people snore most on their backs, were supposed to sew tennis balls onto pajama backs to keep folks from relaxing that way. While these lesbians dont sew, we do own a backpack. Well fill it with tennis balls, tell Bonnie to strap it on (dont go there) and say "Nighty-night." Romantic, no, but were willing to give it a try. Meantime, how bout Larry Flints million dollar offer for Congressional gossip. I bet some politicians arent sleeping too well, either. The thought of retribution for some of the holier than thou statements of the last few months makes me feel like a million bucks, sleep or no sleep. As for the clinic report, well keep you posted. I would think of a snappier ending for this column, but I feel a nap coming on.... |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 8, No. 14, October 16, 1998. |