The specific proposal, respecting which Hope agreed to at least ‘hear [me] out’ on a morning of low skies and light mist which made the small, decorative, ‘bay window’’s light in our breakfast nook appear shadowless and unreal and appeared to exaggerate the haggardness of our exhausted faces, was as follows: that if Hope would consent to attend Rutgers’ Edmund R. and Meredith R. Darling Sleep Clinic with me and place ourselves in the trained and respected Clinic’s Sleep researchers’ experienced hands, then, if the results of the Sleep Clinic’s study of our sleep patterns served, in any substantive way, form or manner to confirm her perceptions and beliefs in the dispute over my ‘snoring,’ then I myself would move immediately back into our Audrey’s former agapemone or ‘Guest’ room down the hall and consent to follow the Medical staff’s recommendations about treating my then presumably bona fide ‘snoring.’ (It is true, as a child, that I myself had evidently sucked or ‘nursed at’ my own thumb while asleep for such an extended period of time during my childhood that our family’s pediatrician in Wilkes Barre had finally directed my parents to coat or paint the nail of my thumb with an aversive tasting prescription lacquer or, as it were, ‘nail’ polish each night before retiring—at least, such was my Father’s stated recollection of anything unusual or out of the ordinary in my childhood sleep habits. [The Darling Sleep Clinic staff had required Hope and myself to fill out exhaustive, preliminary or ‘Intake’ reports on our present and past sleep patterns, including data as far back as possible, including, if possible, childhood.])
On his own, ‘personal’ time, over the course of several appointments and interchanges in his comfortably appointed ‘E.A.P.’ program office, Jack Vivien, despite his own ponderous work load, had helped me to prepare carefully for the presentation of this ‘last ditch’ proposal, during which I made certain to keep my facial expression and vocal tone non-accusatory and neutral other than a certain level of undisguised exhaustion (the previous night had been a particularly difficult or ‘bad’ one, with numerous awakenings and accusations). The suggestion of last ditch exhaustion or ‘giving up’ in the way I presented it in the breakfast nook, which, no doubt (as Jack Vivien predicted), made the proposal more impactful, was, in most respects, sincere or ‘heart-felt,’ although not, obviously, in the way Hope (who, too, appeared to have aged several whole years over the preceding Winter along with myself [though I would never have given voice to this observation aloud—be ‘Father’’s opinions on our marriage as they may, I do know enough about the dynamics of a solid marriage to discern the difference between honesty and mere brutality, and that tact and circumspection play as large a part in an intimate relation as candor and ‘soul baring,’ if not more], and who often complained that chronic lack of sleep [although she often was asleep; what she was, in reality, actually feeling the effects and complaining of were traumatic dreams or ‘Night terrors,’ though I, of course, once again kept my own counsel on these matters] produced a distracting ‘sound’ [or, rather, a mild aural hallucination—I literally bit my tongue in restraint when she discussed this putative ‘sound’] which mimicked the tone of a ‘Tuning fork’ or well rung bell) appeared to believe, her face, over the table’s center-piece, grapefruit and dry toast, flirting at times with vortical abstraction and pulses of virid color but managing to retain or ‘hang on’ to its visual or optical integrity or cohesion in the drained grey morning light in a way which seemed almost stubborn. Small framed and sharp featured, with a swart or tanned complexion and high-lighted hair in a tall ‘Bouffante’ which stood aloof and unchanging above the shifting tides of coiffure fashion, Hope’s strong will and refusal to be anyone other than ‘who’ and ‘what’ she was had been one of the original attractions between her and myself; and at this point, even during my exhausted presentation of the ‘last resort’ of the Edmund R. and Meredith R. Darling Sleep Clinic, I can even now remember remembering that I had never forgotten this, or been unmoved by her ‘inner fire,’ or ceased to (in my ‘way’) ‘love’ and find her desirable despite the fact that, even prior to the enervating dissolution of the present conflict, the intervening recent years had not been, as the saying goes, ‘kind’ with respect to Hope’s gynecic or womanly charms or appeal, although, in her own case, the spoliations of time have not resulted in the swelling, puddling, thickening or bloated effects of the aging process in both her stepsisters and (to a somewhat lesser extent) myself. Once voluptuous to the point of being nearly ‘Ruben-esque,’ Hope’s own aging or anility’s type has established itself as being primarily one now consisting of ‘weazening’ or desiccation, her skin toughening and becoming in places leathery in appearance, her dark tan permanent and her teeth, neck’s tendons and extremities’ joints appearing protrusive in a way they once never did. In brief, her over-all mien has taken on a lupine or predatory aspect, and what was once her eyes’ well known ‘twinkle’ has become a mere avidity. (None of this is, of course, in any way surprising or ‘unnatural’—air and time have simply done to my wife what they also ‘do’ to bread and hung laundry. Indeed, we must all come to terms with our own actuarial plight, so to speak, of which the ‘Empty nest’ is such a vivid mile post along the way of.) The natural but nevertheless terrible reality—albeit unspoken of in any viable union, over time—is that, by this point in our marriage, Hope was already de facto or practically speaking unsexed, an, as the saying goes withered vine or bloom, and this somehow all the worse or ‘more so’ for all of her scrupulous devotion to self care and youthful desiderata, just as so many of her own other bloated or desiccant circle of friends and Book and Horticulture clubs’ middle aged wives and divorcées who habitually congregate together around the Raritan Club’s pool throughout the Summer season are obsessed by, as well: the Exercise classes and caloric regimes, emollients and toners, Yoga, supplements, tanning or (albeit rarely mentioned) Surgical ‘work’ or procedures—all the willful clinging to the same nubile or ‘virgo intacta’ vivacity which their own daughters unknowingly serve to mock as they latterly blossom. (In fact, pace her natural verve and ‘esprit fort,’ it was often all too easy a matter to remark the pain in Hope’s eyes and her mouth’s crimped or ‘pinched’ set when watching or within the purview of our Audrey’s later, increasingly mature and comely peer circle, an anile grief so easily then transferred or ‘projected’ as anger onto myself for merely owning eyes with which to see and be naturally affected by.) One is, in fact, hard pressed to regard it as coincidental that all of these blossoming girls and daughters were, almost without exception, all dispatched to ‘out-of-State’ colleges, as with each passing year the mere physical sight of them became for their mothers a living rebuke.
The actual ‘beds’ for the sleep patients and their cases’ accrued data at the Darling Sleep Clinic were directly side by side, but were also markedly narrow, and possessed of thin, extremely firmly reinforced mattresses, as well as only one sheet and ‘medium weight’ acrylic blanket despite the sterile chill of the Sleep chamber. The diagnostic regimen—which took no little time and negotiations with our P.P.O. to secure coverage or ‘authorization’ concerning which—consisted of Hope and myself’s making the slightly over 90 mile (with myself, as usual, at the wheel while Hope dozed with her Travel pillow against the passenger side door) drive, via ‘I’-195 and State routes 9 and 18, one Wednesday evening per week, to Rutgers-Brunswick Memorial Hospital, and there ‘checking in’ at the institution’s Fourth floor’s NeurologySomnology Dept., which contained the Edmund R. and Meredith R. Darling Memorial Sleep Clinic, whose reputation in the industry truly was, according to both Jack Vivien and other sources, ‘top-flight.’ The Sleep specialist (or, ‘Somnologist’) in charge of our case, a large, mild mannered, burly, heavily set fellow with a lead colored crew cut and what appeared to be an extraordinary number of keys on a promotional ‘Parke Davis, Inc.’ key ring—his manner pleasant in the neutral, subdued and punctilious way of morticians and certain types of Horticulture lecturers—appeared also to have what Hope later rem
arked was little or no discernible neck or throat per se, his head appearing to sit or, as it were, ‘rest’ directly upon his shoulders, which I pointed out may have only been an illusion or effect caused by the high collar of the Somnologist’s white Medical or ‘lab’ coat, which most of the other Darling Memorial Sleep Clinic’s staff on duty wore, as well, with laminated and ‘photo-’ Identification cards clipped (or, in A.D.C.’s Systems Dept.’s more familiar argot or parlance, ‘gator clipped’) to the breast pocket. Select members of the Somnologist’s technical staff (or, ‘Sleep team’) conducted our formal ‘Intake interview,’ with the M.D. himself then acting as docent or guide in briefly showing Hope and myself around the Darling Sleep Clinic facility, which appeared to consist of four or more small, self contained ‘Sleep chambers’ which were surrounded on all sides by soundless, clear, thick or ‘Plexi-’glass walls, sophisticated audio- and video recording devices, and neurological monitoring equipment. Dr. Paphian’s office itself was adjoined to the Clinic’s centrally located ‘Nerve-’ or ‘Command center,’ in which professional Somnologists, Neurologists, aides, technicians and attendants could observe the occupants of the different Sleep chambers on a wide variety of ‘Infra-red’ monitors and ‘brain’ wave measurement and display equipment. Every staff and ‘Sleep team’ member also wore white, noiseless shoes with gum or rubber soles, and the insubstantial blankets on each chamber’s bed were also either spotlessly white or else pastel or ‘sky-’ (or, ‘electric-’) blue. Also, the Darling Sleep Clinic’s system of ‘halogen’ based, track- or cove style, overhead lighting was white and completely shadowless (which is to say, no one in the facility appeared to cast any shadow, which, together with the funereal quiet, Hope felt, she said, lent a somewhat ‘dreamy’ or dream-like aspect to the atmosphere of the place) and made everyone appear sallow or ill, as well as its being markedly chilly in the Sleep chamber. The Somnologist explained that relatively cool temperatures conduced to both human sleep and to the complex measurements of brain wave activity which the Clinic’s sophisticated equipment was designed to monitor, explaining that different types and levels of ‘E.E.G.’ (or, ‘brain’) waves corresponded to several unique and distinct different levels or ‘stages’ of wakefulness and sleep, including the popularly known ‘R.E.M.-’ or ‘Paradoxical stage’ in which the voluntary muscles were paralyzed and dreams occurred. Each of the majority of his many keys was encased around the ‘head’ with a rubber or plastic casement, which, I hypothesized, cut down on the overall noise factor of the huge ring of keys when the Somnologist walked or stood holding the keys in his slightly moving palm in a way suggesting heft or the gauging of weight while he spoke, which was evidently his primary ‘nervous’ or unconscious habit. (Later, at the outset of the initial drive back home [before beginning, as was her usual wont, to doze or ‘nod’ against her side’s door], Hope posited that there seemed to her to be something reassuring, trustworthy or [in Hope’s own term] ‘substantial’ about a fellow with this many keys [with myself, for my own part, keeping to myself the fact that my own associations anent the keys were somewhat more janitorial].)
By arrangement, Hope and myself were to attend the Sleep Clinic once per week, on Wednesdays, for a total duration of from four to six weeks, sleeping over-night in the Sleep chamber under close observation. Much of the Intake data collection process concerned Hope and myself’s nocturnal routines or ‘rituals’ surrounding retiring and preparing for sleep (these said ‘rituals’ being both common to and unique or distinctive of most married couples, the Sleep specialist explained), in order that these logistics and practices might be ‘re-created’—with the obvious exception of any physically intimate or sexual routines, the Somnologist inserted, clinically evincing no discernible embarrassment or ‘shyness’ as Hope avoided my glance—as closely as possible on these ‘over-nights,’ as we prepared to sleep under observation. In separate Dressing rooms, we first changed in to light green hospital gowns and disposable slippers, then proceeded in tandem to our assigned Sleep chamber, Hope using one hand to keep the long vertical ‘slit’ or incision or ‘cleft’ at the rear of her gown clenched shut over her bottom. Neither the gowns nor the high intensity lighting were what anyone would term ‘flattering’ or ‘modest’—and Hope, as a woman, later remonstrated to me that she had felt somewhat demeaned or ‘violated’ to be sleeping under thin coverlets with nameless persons observing her through a glass partition. (Frequent remarks or complaints like this were argumentative ‘bait’ to which I refused to respond or engage on the long, return rides home so early the following morning, where I would hurriedly shave, change clothes and prepare for the by now torturous, ‘peak hour’ commute up to Elizabeth for a full day of work. A frequent habit of Hope’s was sometimes to seemingly agree or acquiesce to a proposal and wait to give voice to her objections until the ‘agreed upon’ course of action was under way, at which time what would have been reasonable caveats and reservations now emerged as being merely pointless carping. I had, however, by this point in the conflict, learned to suppress frustration, indignation or even pointing out that the time for such complaints being productive had long passed, as pointing this out inevitably leads to the sort of conjugal argument or ‘clash of wills’ in which there can be no winner. One should also insert, as I had done to Chester [or (“For God’s sake”), ‘Jack’] Vivien, that our respective make-ups were such that conflict or argument was more difficult or ‘harder’ on myself than on either Hope, Naomi or Audrey, all of whom seemed to have a comparatively easy time of ‘shaking off’ the adrenaline and upset of a heated exchange.) We were instructed or encouraged to bring our personal hygiene or grooming products from home, and to use (first Hope doing so, then myself, just as at home) a private washroom and to undergo our personal hygiene ‘rituals’ in preparation for sleep (with, however, Hope eschewing her facial emollient, hair net, moisturizer and gloves due to the observers and panoply of ‘low light’ cameras, despite instructions to mimic, as closely as possible, our at home routines). Aides or attendants subsequently affixed white, circular ‘E.E.G.’ patches or ‘leads’—whose conductive gels were extremely chilly and ‘queer’ feeling, Hope observed—to our heads’ temples, foreheads, upper chests and arms, whereupon we then lay carefully or ‘gingerly’ down along the lengths of the Sleep chamber’s parallel beds, careful to avoid tangling the complex nests of wires which led from the leads to a grey chassised ‘relay’ or ‘induction’ monitor which hummed quietly in the Sleep chamber’s north-east corner. The ‘Sleep team’ technicians—some of whom, it emerged, were enrolled Medical students at nearby Rutgers University—wore the customary noiseless, white foot wear and ‘lab’ coats unbuttoned over casual or ‘mufti’ clothing. Somewhat surprisingly, three of our Sleep chamber’s apparently ‘glass’ walls were, upon being inside them, revealed to be, in reality, mirrored, such that we could not, from inside, see any of the technicians or recording equipment, while the fourth or final wall’s interior comprised a sophisticated, ‘Wall sized’ video screen or ‘projection’ of various commonly relaxing or soporific vistas, ‘scenes’ or tableaux: fields of nodding wheat, trickling streams, Winter spruces trimmed in fresh snow, small forest animals nibbling at deciduous ground fall, a sea-side sunset and so forth in this vein. The twin beds’ mattress and lone pillows were also revealed to be layered in a plastic compound which crinkled audibly under any movement, which I personally found distracting and somewhat unsanitary. The beds also contained metal railings along the sides which appeared rather higher and more substantial than the rails or sides one is accustomed to associating with a more typical ‘Hospital’ bed. Our case’s assigned Somnologist—Dr. Paphian, with his aforementioned subdued countenance and short, ‘salt and pepper’ hair-cut and sessile head—explained that some patients’ particular sleep dysfunctions involved somnambulism or certain frenetic or even potentially violent movements in the midst of sleep, and that the 24.5 inch brushed steel railings affixed to the chambers’ beds’ sides had been
mandated by the Sleep Clinic’s insurance underwriter.
Also—as light reading for an average of 20 to 30 minutes before Hope customarily struck the elevated sconce’s light above her bed at home was a fairly firmly established part of our marriage’s routine for preparing to retire—Hope and myself spent, for three consecutive Wednesdays in a row, 20 or more minutes sitting awkwardly up in the narrow and ‘crib’-like (because of the high lateral railings) beds with only a crinkling institutional pillow for back support, ostensibly ‘reading’ in our respective beds in the Sleep chamber as we did at home, each holding our current ‘livre de chevets’ of choice, which Hope had brought in her Book club bag from home, but which were here, in this artificial setting, mere ‘props,’ and I did little more than absently turn the pages of Kurt Eichenwald’s Serpent on the Rock, as the idea of relaxing or ‘winding down’ while covered in E.E.G. leads and extrudent wires and fully reflected in three of the small room’s walls was somewhat farcical or absurd; but I was—in what remained close if sub-rosa ‘consultation’ with Jack Vivien—determined now to go through the experiment in full technical compliance, and not to complain, demur or give Hope any cause to suspect or think that I was not fully prepared to go through with my side of the ‘bargain.’ (Sometimes, nevertheless, admittedly, for instance when driving—particularly along the daily commute via the Garden State Parkway, or west-ward via 195, the ‘Jersey’ Turnpike, and ‘I’-276 around metropolitan Philadelphia’s northern border to the campus of out-of-State Bryn Mawr, to there-upon park the vehicle along Montgomery Avenue and upwardly observe the lights of our Audrey’s Freshman dormitory [or, more formally, ‘Ardmore House,’ in honor of a Nineteenth century college benefactor, and designed or ‘done up’ in the steep, grey, vertiginous, crenellated tower or ‘Martello’ style of a medieval era fortress] room on the tower or ‘keep’’s Fourth floor’s north-east corner come on or off as she moved about the room with her room-mate or prepared to retire or undress—I become so distraught, melancholic or consumed with over-whelming anguish or ‘dread’ for no apparent or discernible reason [the feeling, unrelated to the sleep deprivation whose symptoms I knew so well by that point in time, seems to come ‘out of nowhere’ and arise, as it were, out of some profound, unconscious, psychic void or ‘hole’] that I consider intentionally ‘jumping’ the median into on-coming traffic. This fear, on average, will last just a moment or two.)