Swampland.com

Medusa Meets Bride of Frankenstein: A Night at the Sleep Clinic

After my very serious piece about US Highway 72, I thought all of us could use a little levity. Hope you get a laugh out of my recent night at the sleep clinic.

I  have had difficulty sleeping for most of my life. Since my childhood, I have had frightening nightmares or at best very disturbing dreams. I attribute my nightmares to the bad "ether trip" I had at the age of eight when I had a tonsillectomy. My bad dreams seem to stem from about that time in my life, but there was yet another factor.

When I was growing up near Redstone Arsenal, Alabama at the height of  the Cold War, we children lived in fear that any day Russia would bomb us into oblivion. As soon as we entered grade school, we were taught to get under our desks at school, keep our heads down and our eyes closed and prepare for the worst. Even at age 7 or 8, I knew that getting under my plywood desk was no defense against an atomic bomb. This ominous threat no doubt contributed to my terrifying dreams. Although my nightmares eventually became less about mass destruction and more about personal survival, they persisted into adulthood.

Graduate school merely exacerbated my anxiety and my sleep time became less and less refreshing. I would fall asleep exhausted from studying or traveling back and forth from Nashville, Tennessee, at about 9:30 or 10 pm and wake up at 4 am to start my day. Even now I rarely stay in the bed past sun-up.

I tried every type of remedy. Meditation helped if I remembered to meditate every morning when I woke up and every evening before bedtime. Monitoring my television viewing, avoiding any violent or distressing programs in the evening, also helped somewhat. I doubled up on antihistamine since I have allergies anyway, but antihistamines have never made me drowsy. Wine would relax me, and I would fall asleep easily, but then I would awaken two or three hours later when the soporific effects of the alcohol had worn off. I tried valerian, which smells like dirty socks, and melatonin. I tried St John's Wort. I never drank caffeinated beverages after 9 in the morning. I kept regular hours even on the weekends. I made sure there were no distracting lights in my sleep area such as my digital clock which I carefully covered every night. Nothing seemed to help me sleep less fitfully.

Then I discovered Ambien. I used it parsimoniously, doling it out like an illegal drug. I would indulge in a whole table on the nights when I traveled, but on most other nights I would attempt to make it until 1 or 2 am before taking half a tablet. Then I began to have problems simply falling asleep. I blamed it on my taking sleep medication.

In desperation, I consulted a pulmonary-sleep disorder specialist. After asking me numerous questions, he declared that apparently I was doing all I could to assure a good night's sleep. Therefore, he recommended I go to the sleep clinic at the hospital to be observed.

I started my trek to the Athens Limestone Hospital on Monday evening about 6 pm via Highway 72. I wanted to allow plenty of time in case there was a wreck on the highway. Little did I know a horrendous storm was brewing--one that would wreak havoc across North Alabama. The warning sirens began as I approached Athens. I quickly clicked on NOAA radio. Sure enough there was an immediate tornado warning issued for the area. I parked my car, grabbed my little bag, and dashed into the hospital. There, at least, I would be safe.

Ensconced in the oversized chair in my comfy little room, I could scarecely hear the winds howl and the thunder roll and since there were no visible windows, I could not see the lightning or the driving rain. Only in the morning, as I made my way home could I observe the destruction from the sudden storm.

Meanwhile back at the sleep clinic, I was beginning to resemble Medusa. I had dozens of wires coming from all areas of my head, two from my chest, and two from my legs. And there was some tiny plastic contraption beneath my nose. I nearly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. How on earth was I expected to sleep under those conditions, no matter how quiet the room or how inviting the four poster bed! (Image of Electric Medusa by Nela Dunato)

The clinician was a big, muscular guy with a shaved head who looked as if he drove a Harley and might have spent twenty years in the Marines. I felt secure. I trust the Marines. Give me a serviceman anytime. I remembered the old adage: "You can sleep tonight. Your National Guard is awake." If I could have slept, I would have.

Sometime between 9:30 and 10, I was told I could crawl in the bed and go to sleep. I might crawl in the bed, but I knew sleep was out of the question. Finally, at about 2 am. I asked if I might take the Sonata my doctor had told me to bring, just in case. When I woke up again, it was almost 6 am, and I was presented with a questionnaire about my sleep experience.

Once again, I had to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. Every other question seemed to ask how well I had slept and if I did not sleep well, then why? WHY? Because I was hooked up to every possible @(*#$&^&(* device known to man in a strange place in a strange bed. If I could not sleep at home under optimum conditions, how on earth could I possible sleep looking like a human pin cushion or something out of a sci-fi movie. I giggled to myself.

The "Marine" seemed pleased at my good humor." We get some really grouchy people here," he said. "Sleep deprivation can do that to a person." I thanked him for everything he had done and wished him good day. As I walked out I thought to myself, even if we have been made to look like Medusa, we southerners will thank you for it.

When I arrived back home the next morning, a friend called to check on me. "I worried about you all night," she said. "When the lightening hit, I could just see you there, the bride of Frankenstein, french fried. That did it. I exploded in laughter and the two of us howled until we could not get our breath.

I won't know about the results from the clinic until I meet with the doctor next week. He will no doubt recommend a CPAP machine (or Darth Vader, as we call it). What else is there to do besides hypnotherapy? Since my bad ether trip, I have not been able to tolerate anything covering my face. But c'est la vie. I have lived without sleeping much for all these years. I reckon I can live twenty or thirty more.

Meanwhile, I recommend laughter. It really is the very best medicine.

---Penne J. Laubenthal

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