The Sleep Lab from
Hell
In 1991 I left my cushy job at Pearl Harbor on
Oahu where I was working on a defense contract with the U.S. Navy. Why I
left will, I am sure, be a Sleep Thoughts subject in the future. I ended up
at another military complex called Robins Air Force base in <gulp>
Warner Robins, Georgia. I am confident that the town of Warner Robins, GA.
has its finer points but, quite frankly, it is a community that would not
exist if it wasn't for that massive military base. Talk about culture
shock. One month I am sitting on the North Shore in Oahu sipping a Mai Tai.
The next thing I know I am 4000 miles away living in a run-down office that
was located off the run-down main drag of a run-down town that I had never
even heard of. That's right. I said living in the office... a story for
another time.
I was stressed. My insomnia, a condition I had
been wrestling with for many years by that point, had become unmanageable.
I was so tired that I would literally stand on my feet trying to pass out.
If that does not make sense to you then welcome to an insomniac's mindset.
I went to see a doctor who referred me to another doctor who referred me to
a neurologist. The neurologist ran the only sleep lab in Warner Robins. He
had, by default, cornered the insomniac market. He was a monopoly. A sleep
mogul. However, he did make a good case for a laboratory sleep test.
Epilepsy, apnea, brain tumor... heck, it could be anything. Even Fatal
Familial insomnia. Fatal insomnia? NoOoOoooOo! I was too young to
die.
The price was $400.00 in 1991 dollars. So, even
though it was not covered by my insurance, I signed up for the big sleep
test. I fully expected him to tell me to arrive late in the evening, or
possibly very, very early in the morning for my sleep exam. I was taken
aback when his nurse called to tell me I was scheduled for 1:00. That's
13:00 in military time. 1:00 ... in the afternoon. ' Well, he's the
doc', I said to myself, 'he must know what he's doing'. Read on, dear
insomniac.
The Sleep Lab was located in the only hospital in
Warner Robins. It was a hospital that looked like it was once a small
factory... that evolved from a smaller middle school. I arrived full
of anticipation. Maybe my sleep problem could be repaired. Maybe I didn't
have to live like this. Maybe... maybe...
Maybe not.
The World's
Worst Sleep Lab
The rotund young lady that met me there advised
that the doctor would not be coming as he had a previous appointment with a
plate of hot ribs. OK, I made that part up. But he certainly was not there.
So the only 'sleep expert' physician in town, who ran the only sleep lab in
town, could not make it for the the big sleep test on the worst insomniac
in town. Or, at least, that's how I felt. After being wired up with sensors
and what-nots I mounted the bed. I say 'mounted' as it was a good four feet
off the floor. 'Scaled' might be a better word. Now beds come in all sorts
of sizes. King, Queen, double, single. This one came in 'door' size. It was
just big enough to roll thru the old middle school room's single door. So
there I was... perched in my gurney sized bed ready for the big sleep test.
Now, back on good ol' Oahu I had become accustomed to my comfy 600
thread-count cotton sheets. Their sheets were of a different ilk. I would
estimate maybe.. 32 threads of polyester per inch. The cheap sheets barely
covered the piece of paper that was placed under them. You know. That
sanitary paper that your doctor pulls over the exam chair so you don't
get/give cooties to/from another. It made a crinkly-crackly sound whenever
I made the slightest movement. The lights went out. Well, sort off. My test
bed was only feet away from her 'control room'. We were separated by only a
large thin window. She never bothered to turn her fluorescent lights off.
After all, how's a lab tech supposed to read People Magazine with the
lights out? You can only expect so much.
"OK, try to sleep", she said over the
intercom. Why they needed an intercom was beyond me as I could swear I
heard her breathing. A occasional chortle and snort would emanate from her
position and I supposed that Madonna had done something People Magazine
worthy.
I tried. I really did. The thin lofty bed was
uncomfortable. The room was barren and much too warm. The sanitary paper
under the crappy sheet was making noises. There were people in hard shoes
trekking down an adjacent hallway. Echoes of muffled laughter occasionally
wafted in. But finally, because I was so tired, I began to fall asleep. I
was slowly descending into the abyss when a sound so vile entered my
auditory canal and slapped my tympanic membrane like a bitch.
"CRUNCH!"
"CRUNCH!"
The cherub faced sleep lab tech was munching on
corn chips.
When it was all over the corn-chip eating People Magazine
reading lab assistant insisted that I had indeed slept. She pointed to some
inky squiggles on her printouts. I left the hospital-factory-middle school
feeling defeated. Not by my insomnia, mind you. But by a medical community
that, at that time and in that place, didn't understand my condition at
all.
But they certainly understood how to get my
money. Fatal Familial Insomnia, indeed.
One last thought: The neurologist advised me that
the test was 'inconclusive' and that he really did need me to come back for
another sleep test. "Well then how about some sleeping pills, doc?", I
asked.
"I'd really rather not... not until we can pin
down your problem".
The Warner Robins Sleep Lab Monopoly Mogul had
spoken.
