"The Dream Team"

By Jerry Zezima

As a newspaper columnist whose specialty is doing nothing and writing about it, I thought I had a dream job.

Then I met Raminder, a technician whose job was to watch me dream and record what I did in bed — it was nothing to write home about — during a sleep study.

I participated in this diagnostic test, which required me to stay in a hospital overnight, because my wife, Sue, says that when I’m in bed at home, I snore — this is an exact quote — “like Mount Vesuvius.”

That means I not only am loud, but also 2,000 years old.

The study was scheduled after consultations with my primary care physician, a nurse practitioner, a doctor of audiology, a sleep specialist and, of course, Sue, who all agreed that snoring can be bad for a marriage.

In extreme cases, it can result in the most worrisome line of the wedding vows: “Till death do us part.”

Before I reported to the hospital at 8 p.m., I was given instructions, which said: “Bring something to sleep in (preferably two-piece pajamas with buttons in the front or a T-shirt and shorts), slippers, toiletries, reading materials, medications or any snacks that you need.”

I packed a bag with snazzy PJs I got from my granddaughters’ school fundraiser. For reading, I brought one of my own books, just in case I couldn’t get to sleep.

“If you have a favorite sleeping item, such as a pillow, feel free to bring it with you,” the instructions went on.

My favorite sleeping item is Sue, but she wisely insisted on staying home.

“If one of us is going to get a good night’s sleep,” she said, “it will be me.”

When I arrived at the Sleep Center, I met the youngest of the five participants in that night’s study: Graham, 3, who chirped, “This will be fun!” His mother hoped he was right.

The oldest participant was Maria, 81, who said, “I did this once before at a different location, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

Then I was escorted to a private room by Raminder, one of the two sleep technicians working that night.

“Do you sleep on the job?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she answered. “I have to stay awake all night. You’re the one who’s supposed to be sleeping.”

After I watched TV for a while, Raminder said I should get into my jammies.

When she came back into the room, she asked me to sit in a chair while she hooked me up with enough wires to electrocute an elephant.

“They’re safe,” Raminder assured me. “They will monitor your lungs, heart and brain.”

“I don’t have much activity from the neck up,” I said.

“And,” Raminder added as she placed electrodes on my scalp, my forehead, the sides of my face, under my chin and behind my ears, “they’ll tell us if you snore.”

I also had electrodes on my chest, sensors on my legs, bands on my chest and abdomen, a flow sensor on my upper lip and a plastic sensor on my left index finger.

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” I wondered.

“Press this button,” Raminder said, “and I’ll give you a box you can carry to the toilet.”

“I hope I don’t drop it in there,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” replied Raminder, who said the room was outfitted with cameras to record my sleeping positions.

After I climbed into bed, she turned off the light and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Nighty-night!” I responded.

I got up twice to use the porcelain convenience: at 11:20 and 2:10. Other than that, I slept soundly but not, according to Raminder, soundlessly.

“You snored on and off, but it wasn’t too bad,” she said after waking me up at 5:38 a.m. “Overall, you did very well. We’ll have the final results in two or three weeks.”

“My wife will be impressed,” I said.

“Tell her to come in for a sleep study, too,” Raminder said.

“I know what she’ll say,” I predicted. “In your dreams.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The Inside Story"

By Jerry Zezima

Every 10 years, my internal clock, which I inadvertently swallowed while eating Jell-O, reminds me to have a colonoscopy.

Unfortunately, the sulfate solution I took to wash down the Jell-O and everything else I ingested on my one-day liquid preparation diet would have lost to sewer sludge in a blind taste test.

That’s the sacrifice I made to keep the situation fluid for a doctor to explore my innards and ensure everything was clear except, of course, for my internal clock, which read 11:15 a.m., the time I had the procedure.

The day before, I had to prepare. This entailed following a menu composed entirely of liquids that did not, regrettably, include beer or red wine.

“Drink at least 8 glasses of clear liquids,” said the instructions from my gastroenterologist. “Examples include: apple juice, water, clear broth or bouillon, Gatorade, Snapple, carbonated soda, Jell-O, ice popsicles, black coffee, black tea. … You cannot have orange juice or other liquids you cannot see through.”

For breakfast, I had black coffee. I wasn’t allowed to put milk in it because you can’t see through milk, especially if it’s still in a cow. And a cow is considered solid food, which I couldn’t have, either.

For lunch, I had chicken broth, minus the chicken (see above). For dessert, I had a cup of Italian ice, a box of which my wife, Sue, bought so I could stay hydrated but still feel like I was actually eating something.

Throughout the day, I drank enough water to drown a walrus. That’s why I used a pedometer (or, more appropriately, a pee-dometer) to count the number of steps (2,765) I took to the bathroom. Since we have two and a half bathrooms, I visited all of them. I must confess that using the half-bathroom confused me. Was I supposed to finish in another bathroom or just  use a full one?

At cocktail time, I had Gatorade in a wineglass.

“Cheers!” I said to myself.

For dinner, there was the piece de resistance, a French phrase meaning, in this case, “resist a piece of anything that tastes good.”

So Sue made me a large bowl of green Jell-O.

I sat at the kitchen table, a tablespoon in hand, and dug in.

“You outdid yourself!” I told her.

“Sorry you have to watch me eat,” said Sue, who had a plate of chicken parmigiana.

At 6 p.m., it was time for the first of two doses of the sulfate solution, six ounces of which I poured into a 16-ounce mixing container. I added enough water to fill the plastic cup, stirred the concoction and took a sip.

My throat constricted, my spine shuddered and my nose hairs quivered.

“How does it taste?” Sue asked.

“Like it was run through a dead weasel,” I spluttered.

When I finished, I had to drink two more 16-ounce cups of water within an hour.

At 10 p.m., I repeated the process.

Shortly thereafter, all hell broke loose. It was like a geyser through a geezer.

The next morning, I went for my colonoscopy.

I told a nurse anesthetist named Dave that the first time I had a colonoscopy, I was given a local anesthetic that kept me awake for the procedure, which I watched on a screen.

“It was like driving through the Lincoln Tunnel on the off-hours,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” said Dave. “This time you’ll be knocked out.”

Half an hour later, it was all over.

“You did great,” Dr. Emily Glazer told me in the recovery area.

“So did you,” I said. “At least I don’t have to do this again for another 10 years.”

“Maybe by then that awful sulfate solution will taste better,” Dr. Glazer said.

I toasted the sentiment with a small bottle of apple juice, which a nurse had given to me.

“Thanks, doc,” I said. “Bottoms up!”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The Fab Floor"

By Jerry Zezima

You can make book on the fact that I’m not a guy to sweep things under the rug. But you may be floored to know that I brought the hammer down on our latest home improvement project.

That’s why I had to clean my office of enough books to bury Moby-Dick so new flooring could be installed with the help of yours truly and my trusty hammer.

Actually, the hammer belonged to our contractor, Anthony Amini, who let me use it to pop a pair of planks in place.

It wasn’t the least I could do, but it was close.

The bulk of the work, which took a week, was done by Anthony, who owns Performance Contracting and Management on Long Island, New York, and his hard-working helpers, Victor and Narlin.

They ripped up the ratty old carpeting in four upstairs rooms — three bedrooms and the office — and replaced it with vinyl floors that are fresh, clean and, thanks to my hammering, which somehow didn’t result in pain or bloodshed, beautiful.

“I’m going to put you to work,” Anthony told me when the guys started their work in my office.

Little did he know how much work I had already done in finally cleaning the office of so much stuff — papers, pictures, CDs, DVDs, plaques, clothes, mugs, cards, envelopes, receipts and, of course, books — that I’m surprised I didn’t find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa in there.

A lot of it was on the floor, which was covered by a carpet so worn and frayed that it must have been installed when the house was built during the administration of Gerald R. Ford. Since the carpet just turned 50, I wanted to donate it to AARP, but I was afraid the organization would revoke my membership.

I had been cleaning the office in fits and starts — every time I started, I had a fit — for months. This was at the behest of my wife, Sue, who is neat, in both cleanliness and excellence, whereas I, to put it charitably, am not. If we ever won the lottery, we’d never collect the money because Sue would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I would put it somewhere in the house, probably my office, and never find it again.

The room had four large, overflowing bookcases, plus countless books lying around, just waiting for me to trip over them and hit my head on the floor, which needed to be replaced anyway (the floor, not my head, though Sue would opt for that, too).

I donated many of the books to my local public library. The vintage books, not including “Moby-Dick” (see above), were donated to an independent bookstore.

All told, I wanted to find good homes for my tomes, which not only is true but also rhymes.

With the office at long last clean, Victor and Narlin began moving furniture — a large desk, two filing cabinets, three chairs and two remaining bookcases — and ripping up the carpet. Then they started to install the flooring, which came in long planks that had to be hammered snugly against each other.

“Mr. Jerry,” Victor said, “would you like to try?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll show you guys how it’s done.”

Victor handed me a large hammer with a head almost as hard as my own. I knelt down over a plank and gave it a couple of swift hits. When Victor put down another plank, I hammered it next to the first one.

“Good job!” Victor exclaimed.

Narlin agreed.

I let the guys finish the office and do the flooring in the three bedrooms, which now sport area rugs that I can sweep things under.

“You should write a book about this,” Anthony suggested.

“If you do,” Sue chimed in, “don’t put it in your office.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima