A difference of night and day

Diary note:

King Street, seven a.m.: Cobourg’s Coffee Place. A double espressolong, to go please, as I’m heading home. Teri just opened for the day and I’m her first customer. I got unwired barely forty minutes ago: unwired as in the Sleep Clinic around the corner beside the old jail where I just checked out of. Checked out of the clinic that is. Maybe the reason Teri is amused with my bad hair because glue has added to my early-morning-where-am-I-look. I’ll get to the glue thing in a moment.

You see, I finally followed up on something after the gentle-but-persistent nudging from a fine friend. And I no longer felt alone as I read up on sleep disorders and found that I was among seventy-million North Americans in similar situations, and also that hundreds of billions of dollars a year are spent on doctors’ fees, hospital stays, prescriptions and over-the-counter meds for serious side effects from the lack of restorative sleep. Serious as in stroke, depression and diabetes. Serious as in the cause of thousands of fatal vehicle smash-ups each year. The next time a fourteen- wheeler transport passes me on the 401, I’ll want to imagine that the driver had a good night’s sleep.

Do you experience snoring, pauses in breathing, gasping or restless legs at night? Tired in the morning? There is a catalogue of causes for sleeplessness. I noted the irony of some sleep websites sponsored by Myrtle Beach vacations and a well-known tea outfit. For those who partake in somniloquy—a fancy sounding word for talking in one’s sleep—for example, be happy to know that modern sleep science and the law accept that gabbing away while sleeping is ruled not to be of conscious or rational mind and is, therefore, inadmissible in court. We’re off the hook there.

The research walks you through a maze of potential causes and also discusses sleep architecture and hygiene (as in sleep habits), melatonin—the Dracula of hormones because it only comes out at night—REM and NREM patterns, and basically the miracle of the human makeup that takes place during the one third of our lives we spend sleeping. Imagine we’re designed to work as a tripod. What if we neglect to take care of one of these three life supports? Sleep is like an eight-hour reset button, how I’ve come to see it. Besides, the lethargy of winter hibernation has me sitting on a log. So I’m out to re-boot myself by sleeping well, which will conjure a new series of did-you-know validations when hammock time comes around in July. Except that’s a lie.

You see, snoozing in the day is, apparently, a sign of lack of the stimulating hormone melatonin, which is only created when the sun sets and eye flutters, triggering a gland in the brain to start producing it. But wouldn’t you know it? You can buy manufactured melatonin off the shelf but buyer beware: only the body knows the right dosage and timing.

There I was, arriving at the sleep clinic for my appointment on a—get this—Sunday night at 8:30. I packed my jammies, tooth brush and reading material—Paris 1919, from the Wellington Library, (highly recommended if you want a backgrounder on the mess in the Middle East these days.) No alcohol or caffeine after 2 p.m. was permitted.

Incidentally, reading, eating, watching TV, or catching up on social media are considered non-hygienic habits for the mind when we partake in the place where we sleep. Count sheep; think Waupous Island; ponder the answer to the number of seats on council in Prince Edward County to help get to sleep. But texting?

So I arrived and was greeted by a slight, mature, softspoken gentleman who asked for a meds list then handed me a clipboard with consent forms and questionnaires to fill out. His name is Abdullah, who originated from Bangladesh and was a doctor practicing in the Middle East before immigrating to Canada. He now works at the clinic as a technician. Abdullah pointed to door number one. That would be my respite.

I found myself in what felt like an average hotel room, carpeted, double bed, beige duvet and a rust coloured La-Z-Boy chair in a corner. What was not average is that above the chair on the wall was mounted a night-vision camera with its dim red light and various other conveyances. No miniature chocolate on the pillow. Caffeine, eh?

After my bedtime routine and jammies were on is when I learned of Abdullah’s story. It took thirty minutes to methodically wire me head to toe with twenty five small electrodes by applying glue and tape here and there. He measured my neck and then my head. Eight of these leads were connected to my head in order to monitor breathing, mouth, parts of the brain, etc. I figured I’d impress him when it comes to locating the position of a gland located in the centre of the brain. He marked my scalp with a Sharpie pen. “Yes indeed, it is the pineal gland,” he said. “How do you know about such things?” See! The pineal is the melatonin factory.

Tiny wires dangled everywhere as Abdullah pluged each one into a cribbage-board-looking-apparatus the dimensions of a kid-sized shoe box. It comes with a handy carrying strap in case you want to hang out before the mother board gets plugged in when you lie down and are ready to sleep.

I tucked myself in, took a sleeping pill and read, as is my habit before dozing off. I’m now plugged in as the late train blows its whistle just north of here and the gong of eleven bells rings in Cobourg’s Town Hall clock tower next door. Abdullah asked me to make eye, mouth, breathing and leg movements to verify the system was functioning. I now had permission for take-off.

I slid away to dreamland and reached to turn off the bedside lamp. My eyewear and hearing equipment were tangled in a web of wires and removing them was impossible. Abdullah heard my call and returned to rescue me. Finally sleep, oh gentle sleep. Only one interruption during the night when Abdullah came in to re-attach some bits that had come under wrath from a twitching leg or something like it. He appeared and then vanished, as though an apparition.

Six a.m. on the dot: the door opened, lights on, I am disentangled then handed back the clipboard to describe night’s findings. Abdullah and I shook hands and after dressing I head into the chill of sunrise. The results of mys leep bootcamp are to follow. I have joined in the small percentage of people who seek help for a sleep disorder. More than worth a coffee, I’d say. But most importantly, I now know the difference between day and night.