"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