“You snore!” My sweetie-pie squinted at me.

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I periodically snored so loudly I would wake myself up. Ironically, he was the one who used to saw wood, as old folks once said. But then he lost 65 pounds and now he doesn’t make a peep when he’s off in slumberland.

He eyed me. “You should go see a doctor. What if you have sleep apnea?”

I flashed on those TV commercials where frustrated sleepers rip off a facemask attached to a tube attached to a box that pumps oxygen into their lungs, ostensibly to keep their snoring to a minimum. The contraption seemed worse than the problem, so my first thought was, “Heck no!” But eventually he talked me into a visit to the local sleep clinic.

A nice young doctor—Why do they all suddenly look 15?—looked down my throat and took a few notes. “We’ll do a sleep study,” he said.

I glanced at the corner of the examination room where two plastic heads wore versions of continuous positive airway pressure machines, more commonly referred to as CPAPs.

“They’re not as bad as those TV commercials make them out to be,” the doctor explained when he saw me staring. “I wear one every night.”

Later, I pulled a device from a small black box. I’d been instructed to place two sticky pads on the machine, affix it to my forehead, arrange the strap around my head, then situate a tube beneath my nose.

 “Please lie down and sleep.” A lilting female voice with a British accent startled me, but I regained my composure and did as she recommended. I slipped between the sheets, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes. Though the box sticking to my forehead felt a little strange, I nodded off.

“Your device has been disconnected!”

I jolted up.

“Please reconnect your device!”

It took me a moment, but I soon realized it was the British lady addressing me. One of the sticky pads had come loose, so I pressed it back onto my forehead.

“Please lie down and sleep,” she instructed in a more soothing tone.

I wondered if I should apologize for upsetting her. Then I considered whether she was a real person, watching from some far-off observation facility. Was there a camera in the little box? Or a microphone? I was tempted to say hello, but she again ordered me to get back to sleeping.

The British lady—and perhaps her medical minions—tracked my sleep for three nights, after which I returned the box to the clinic.  

“The doctors will examine the results and inform you of the next steps,” the receptionist explained.

While waiting for the process to play out, I learned that sleep apnea affects roughly 30 million U.S. adults, though only about six million have been diagnosed. The problem, of course, is that the affliction can lead to medical issues like heart attacks and strokes, as well as memory problems, insulin resistance, and an overall sense of exhaustion. I’ve also learned it can cause grumpy partners.

It will be a month or so before I hear if I have to spend a few nights at the sleep clinic attached to wires and electrodes to check my heartrate, breathing, oxygen levels, and some other things. I passed a few of those pretty little bedrooms the last time I visited. I wonder if the British lady will be there and if the minions might leave me a mint on the pillow.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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