Who is that masked man?

By Alison Lebovitz

I know, I know, be careful what you wish for, right? Well, no one knows that better than I do. In an attempt to prove myself right, I have become the impetus for something so wrong it’s been keeping me up at night. Literally.
It all started when I decided my husband, Alan, was suffering from narcolepsy. He has always had a tendency to fall asleep anywhere he goes. You name it, he can nap through it—movies, lectures, weddings, plays. He even admits to falling asleep in almost every class in college and business school. Even more suspicious is how quickly he can fall into a deep slumber. At night he falls asleep so fast I was worried that he either had narcolepsy or, even worse, that I am so boring he has to use sleep as his main line of defense. One minute he’s kissing me goodnight, and the next minute I can kiss any hopes of conversation goodbye as I hear the first signs of snoring and feel the jimmies coming on. (A “jimmy” is what I have affectionately termed those involuntary leg and arm jerks that happen on the brink of sleep). Suffice to say, it didn’t take 12 years of medical school for me to figure out my husband has a sleep disorder—just 12 years of marriage.
After years of hassling him without success to verify my suspicions, I actually ended up meeting a sleep doctor in town at a recent fundraising event. Disposing with any formalities, I immediately and eagerly told him about my husband’s symptoms and my suspicions. “He even dreams within five minutes of hitting the pillow. That’s not normal, is it?” I pleaded. The doctor agreed, adding that he was duly impressed with my research. I was finally getting somewhere.
Just a few weeks later, Alan finally agreed to get his sleepy self to the sleep doctor. After a 20-hour stay in a special home for the sleep challenged, he was officially diagnosed with narcolepsy. When he delivered the news to me that night, I raised my fists in triumph and said, “I was right! I was right! And I am not boring, after all!”—and then immediately put them down and said, sympathetically, “I’m sorry to hear that, honey. What does that mean? Is there a cure?” Alan said the doctor had prescribed some medications, but he wasn’t going to take anything until after his next sleep test. Now the doctor wanted to test him for sleep apnea, too.
After Googling the term, I learned that “apnea” is a Greek word that literally means “without breath.” I also learned that people with untreated sleep apnea stop breathing repeatedly during their sleep, sometimes hundreds of times during the night and often for a minute or longer. This didn’t sound good.
So another few weeks and a second overnight sleep study later, Alan got his report: He had narcolepsy And sleep apnea. Seriously.
The next week he came home with a strange device that resembles a mask and snorkel attached to a humidifier. He explained it was a CPAP machine, which would blow air into his nose throughout the night to help reduce his snoring and eliminate his apnea.
In turn, this has become our new nightly routine: Alan pours distilled water into the little black box by the bed, kisses me goodnight and then places a contraption over his face that makes him look like the strange love child of Jacques Cousteau and Hannibal Lecter. The first night he used it, I spent every waking second on the verge of hysterical laughter. Every night since, I have spent every waking moment on the verge of tears. It’s stressful enough to sleep next to a jimmy-legged, snoring, suspected narcoleptic for 12 years. It’s another thing to sleep next to an apneatic, mask-wearing, certified narcoleptic attached to a breathing machine for the rest of my life. I always figured one of us would be on oxygen one day, but I assumed we would be in our 90s and living in Florida.
To make matters worse, Alan recently found out that an apnea diagnosis could mean a raise in his insurance premiums. (So, if any of our insurance agents are reading this, please know this column neither confirms nor denies that my husband has been officially diagnosed with any sleep disorder.)
My husband happens to be out of town on a business trip tonight, and it is the first time in a month that I can look forward to a peaceful night. I glance at his machine, which now rests quietly on his nightstand with a motionless mask by its side, and I smile at the thought of the soundless slumber that will soon consume me. But instead, I find the silence to be deafening and end up staring at my clock for two hours, wishing my husband were by my side. Turns out, I need him to help me fall asleep as much as he needs that darn breathing machine.
Then again, I think I might be suffering from insomnia. But don’t worry; I won’t exhaust you with those details.