Despite, however, my nervousness or excitement at the prospect of objective verification of my ‘side’ of the dispute, my life-long custom or habit of lying supine on my back with my elbows bent and hands atop one another upon my chest made relaxing as the Sleep chamber’s soothing vistas and harsh lights were extinguished from somewhere outside the chamber somewhat more straightforward for myself as opposed to Hope, whose habit (unlike our Audrey, who tends to curl somewhat ‘foetally’ on her right side, and often appears to awaken in precisely the same position in which she had originally lost consciousness) is to fall asleep procumbent or ‘prone,’ with her arms splayed and her head rotated or, as it were, almost ‘twisted’ violently to the side, as though some great, unwelcome weight were pressing her down from behind and above (a position which most adults would find noticeably uncomfortable), and she complained to the ‘Sleep team’ that it would be nearly impossible for her to fall truly asleep when supine and facing, as it were, ‘up’ as the E.E.G. leads and wires seemed to dictate. Nevertheless, she subsequently did (as usual) fall promptly asleep; and, on our second Wednesday ‘over-night’ in the Sleep chamber, neither she nor ‘Dr. Paphian’ (the Sleep specialist’s cognomen or sur-name) ever again referred to her vehement protests of the week prior.
As previously mentioned, our diagnostic protocol dictated our traveling to and ‘checking in’ to sleep together at the Darling Memorial Sleep Clinic once per week for a possible time frame of up to six weeks, with Hope and myself’s brains’ respective wave patterns monitored and any untoward movements, sounds or awakenings recorded on state of the art Infra-red or ‘low light’ videotape (Hope often made a point of verifying the audio’s quality, as well, while I gazed neutrally at the Fourth wall’s screen’s relaxing tableaux), which would be analyzed by our Somnologist and eventually form the basis for a medical diagnosis and recommended course of treatment. I myself, of course, as previously mentioned, was looking forward with some anticipation to the recordings’ empirical verification of the fact that, when Hope cried out in vexation to accuse me once again of ‘snoring,’ my E.E.G. waves would indicate that, not only was I myself not truly asleep, but that, on the contrary, Hope’s own brain ‘reading’ would prove conclusively that it was, in reality, she herself who at that time was actually asleep and had dreamt, hallucinated or otherwise ‘fantasized’ the unpleasant noises which she so steadfastly believed were ‘robbing’ her of her sleep, health, youth and ability to trust that she and myself were ‘on the same wave length’ enough anymore to make our marriage anything more than a sexless sham, especially now that Audrey was no longer at home to ‘preoccupy’ me or serve as the ‘focus of [my] affections’ (this among the charges which Hope had levied in the vindictive heat of the very worst morning arguments respecting the conflict and our whole viability as a marriage and putative ‘family’).
As it eventuated, however, it only took the P.P.O.’s authorized minimum (or, ‘Floor’) of three weeks for an administrative aide or factotum at the Darling Clinic to page me in my small Systems Dept. office at the work-place (he had apparently called our home phone number, as well, but Hope had been either [as was more and more frequently the case] ‘out’ or else asleep [she openly napped, despite the Clinic’s informational material at the outset’s clear instructions against diurnal napping for patients with any type of sleep related condition]) to inform me that the Darling Memorial Sleep Clinic’s administration, in conjunction with Dr. Paphian and the rest of the ‘Sleep team’ in charge of Hope and myself’s case, now felt that they had enough accrued data to offer a firm diagnosis and a recommended course of any ‘treatments or procedures [deemed] indicated.’ This official diagnosis was to be proffered the following week (on, for scheduling reasons, a Monday morning) in a small Conference room off the ‘main’ or central corridor or hallway of the hospital’s Fourth floor’s unusual, stelliform or ‘diamond’ shaped floor plan or ‘lay-out,’ a small, brightly lit room with one all too familiar ‘Goya’ among the more generic or commercial Impressionist prints on the wall, and a round, maple or wood grain table with matching ‘captain’s’ chairs whose seats’ and arm rests’ padding was a dark and somewhat over-saturant red in color. Like so much of the rest of the Darling Memorial Clinic, this room was also markedly chilly (the more so as we had driven down, amidst peak morning traffic, in a severe storm, with high winds and heavy precipitation, only then to find that Rutgers-Brunswick Hospital’s indoor parking garage’s vehicle entrance was emblazoned with a sign reading, ‘LOT FULL.’ Both our over-coats were, as a result, sodden, and dripped on the Conference room’s floor, as well as the fact that Hope—whose morbid, long-standing fear of ‘violent’ storms had prevented her from sleeping or napping throughout the stressful commute—was, as a result, in a particularly foul, obdurate temper), and was equipped or outfitted with an illuminated wall mount appliance or device for reading X-rays and ‘M.R.I.’ images, as well as a large video- andor audio Monitor on a rolling ‘stand’ or cart of reinforced aluminum or iron, painted an institutional brown and with each leg terminating in a small ‘caster’ or wheel for mobility. Everyone in the Conference room appeared to have disposable, styrofoam cups of coffee or tea which sat on the table at our respective places, and steamed. Having, due to anticipation or ‘nerves,’ gotten little or no sleep the prior night, both my glasses and vest felt too tight once again, and all sounds appeared to amplify or ‘ramify’ somewhat, but with the room only moving slightly in and out of exaggerant visual focus and hue. Each time I yawned, however, produced a sharp bloom or flower of pain in my ear. My trouser cuffs and garters being wet, as well, and Hope’s tall coiffure being somewhat canted to the right, and her shadowless face resembling something De Kooning himself might have torn from the easel and discarded in medias res, as well. Also around the table, a small, dark, unfamiliar, ‘saucer’ eyed, Hispanic man with chloasmatic or pre-cancerous lesions on the backs of his hands, his ‘business attire’ or suit of fine, dark grey wool, the knot of his tie the size of a toddler’s head. The sound of a hand-held hammer. The sound of a Driving range. The sound of a nail gun and portable air compressor. Of one or more rotary or ‘power’ saws. The sound of a Saab with mild turbo lag. The sound of impacting rain and wipers on High. The sound of a blender making frozen drinks, of coins in a Prudential ‘Executive-’ or ‘Senior Management’ lounge’s vending machine. Of a lengthy putt being ‘made’ or ‘drained’ in the cup’s shallow hole. The sound of struggles and muffled breathing and a male- or ‘Father’ figure’s whispered grunts and shushing. Some type of construction, maintenance or related activity was under way some distance along the central corridor or hallway, in the evident direction of the actual Darling Clinic’s Sleep chambers and observational ‘Nerve’ center, and the emphatic sounds of a hammer started and stopped without discernible rhythm. I suffered or experienced a rapid and terrible flash or ‘strobe-’lit interior vision of a prone female figure wrapped in clear plastic industrial sheeting, which cleared almost instantly. Around the table with Hope and myself were seated or ‘arrayed’ the Somnologist with his ever present array of keys and white, ‘lab’ soutane or coat, two somewhat younger technicians or aides who were also members of our case’s ‘Sleep team,’ and a finely arrayed, male, Hispanic or, perhaps, ethnically Cuban, Medical administrative professional, who was explained to be present representing Rutgers-Brunswick Memorial Hospital’s periodic ‘Review’ or evaluation of the Darling Memorial Clinic’s diagnostic procedures and activities. The cart’s Monitor—attended by a young, female ‘Sleep team’ technician with no discernible wedding band and a severely pulled back brunette hair-style, who also carried a collection of various tapes and files associated with Hope and myself’s case, one of which she apparently activated via a hand-held or ‘remote’ device—now displayed my own name, date, and personal eight digit ‘P.P.O. Number’ (as well as a specially assigned ‘D.S.C.’ [for ‘Darling Sleep Clinic’] Number) beneath a template of four evenly spaced, horizonta
l lines, not unlike a musical score’s, between which moved a jagged or erratic line of white light which signified my own ‘brain’ waves, which had evidently been recorded through the conductive E.E.G. leads throughout our nights in the Sleep chamber. The waves’ white ‘line’ was discomfiting, being palsied, bumpy and arrhythmic rather than regular or consistent, as well as being trended with dramatic troughs and spikes or ‘nodes’ suggestive in appearance of an arrhythmic heart or financially troubled or erratic ‘Cash flow’ graph. Also, not unlike a series of Hewlett-Packard HP9400B mainframes arrayed in sequence for co-sequential (or, in A.D.C.’s nomenclature, ‘Sysplex’) data processing, a digital display in the monitor’s upper left corner displayed the elapsed time along several minutely calibrated temporal gradients.
As the entire ‘Sleep team’ knew from our Intake data, my wife’s own morbid fear of insomnia or sleep deprivation was long-standing. When, for instance, our Audrey was, as a child, ill or anxious respecting bad dreams or phantasms, it was often I who ‘sat’ up with her so that Hope could, as she would have it, ‘try to’ sleep.
Meanwhile, the initial ‘result’ or ‘diagnosis’ proffered by the Sleep specialist was, in a word, shocking and wholly unexpected. On each of the five or six occasions when special, ‘low light’ video equipment had recorded Hope sitting suddenly up-right and accusing me of ‘snoring,’ as well as on the evidently at least two of these recorded instances when I had audibly rejoined that I was not even yet asleep and thus could not logically be ‘guilty’ of the accusation, the Sleep specialist—aided in his presentation by the youthfully severe technician’s laser pointer and her ‘remote’ device’s ability to halt or ‘freeze’ the Monitor’s display in order to draw the table’s attention to a certain time specific interval in the E.E.G.—averred or affirmed ipse dixit that in fact I had, indeed, been, clinically speaking—despite my belief or perception of being fully conscious—‘technically asleep,’ predominantly in the Second or Third of the four well known levels or ‘stages’ of sleep, which the Somnologist once again outlined or glossed. As the rest of the table and ‘Sleep team’ looked on, the Somnologist (who, as usual, held and unconsciously ‘toyed with’ his ponderous, Parke-Davis key ring) delivered this verdict with all the clinical objectivity of modern science, and took pains to make it clear once again that he was empirically neutral in the marital discord and took neither one ‘side’ in the dispute nor the other. Nevertheless, I felt, upon the putative ‘diagnosis’’s initial delivery, a spasm or ‘wave’ of both anger and disbelief, which caused one of my first unconscious or ‘reflexive’ thoughts to be that Dr. Paphian et alia were in fact on Hope’s ‘side,’ and that she had somehow induced the Darling Clinic to alter the testing data to somehow indicate that I was asleep when I knew very well (meaning, every bit as well as I knew I was seated there in that Conference room, gripping the blood colored arms of the chair in disbelief) I was not. Meanwhile, my physical demeanor betrayed none of this admittedly irrational suspicion, but rather only shock and surprise—my jaw quite literally ‘dropped,’ and for a brief interval of time I was so non-plussed that I did not think or have the ‘presence of mind’ to ask about any parallel results indicated by the study and E.E.G.’s aural or audio portion—meaning, in other words, whether or not it was also confirmed that my being ‘technically asleep’ was or was not accompanied by audible ‘snoring.’ (Here I also, it should be inserted, had an erection or ‘Boner’ at this time [my first in several months], the origins and associations of which were, in my disoriented state, wholly unknown; the indirect cause may have been the sudden surge of adrenal- or stress-related hormones caused by the findings’ sudden shock.)
There were, following this alleged ‘diagnosis,’ approximately two to four seconds of collective silence, punctuated by the noise of construction activities, rain striking the Conference room’s west window, and a ringing telephone somewhere deeper within the administrative offices of the Darling Memorial Sleep Clinic. My quondam or former first wife, Naomi, never accepted the fact that I did not want children with her; I was afraid of ‘repeating the cycle.’ Also, my pager was vibrating. Hope’s own facial expression or mien, upon the Sleep specialist’s news, was the somewhat exaggeratedly ‘bland’ or ‘unreactive’ one which I knew so well from other marital embarrassments, an affect which signified that she was experiencing a sense of bitter vindication or triumph, but was disguising or effacing her pleasure in order to appear to be taking the ‘high-road’ in the conflict, as well as to avoid my possibly accusing her of vindictive triumph, as well as to show a lack of any surprise and to attempt to make clear that she had ‘never’ had or entertained the ‘slightest doubt’ that she was in the right in the dispute over the conflict, and that the Somnologist was now merely confirming what she had in reality ‘kn[own] all along.’ Only a certain slight gleam or avidity in Hope’s pale eyes betrayed her surprise and triumph at my stunned disbelief at the Sleep team’s apparent Medical diagnosis or ‘ruling.’ The sound of the ringing telephone, seemingly unanswered, continued on in this brief, silent interval prior to the young, forbiddingly nubile or ‘paphian’ technician’s there-upon ejecting, inserting and manually adjusting or ‘re-setting’ the Monitor’s display as the bland, phlegmatic Somnologist’s diagnosis now shifted its focus to my wife’s own E.E.G. measurement’s recorded ‘brain’ waves, which, on the Monitor, to Hope and myself’s inexpert or ‘lay’ eyes, appeared indistinguishable from my own display, except, of course, for the difference of its now being Hope’s own name and P.P.O. and Darling Clinic ‘Patient code’ numbers displayed beneath the template whose palsied, erratic line now signified Hope’s brain’s electrical activity during this calibrated time frame. These particular areas, Dr. Paphian averred between several sudden, conspicuous, screaming or ‘shrieking’ sounds from a ‘power’ saw or router somewhere down the corridor (there was also the ambient smell of freshly cut wood, as well as industrial plastic, in addition to the Hispanic’s pungent cologne and Hope’s customary brand of ‘JOY’), pointing out with the salacious technician’s hand-held pointer distinctive spikes or ‘nodes’ in the erratic line of Hope’s ‘brain’ waves, indicated—to (as it, so to speak, ‘goes,’ quite obviously, ‘without saying’) both of our further surprise—that not merely myself but Hope, as well, had herself evidently also been verifiably or empirically asleep during the recorded time periods when she allegedly ‘heard’ my ‘snoring’ (while, in addition or concurrently, due possibly either to extreme fatigue or adrenaline, I myself was also experiencing at the same time a radically compressed or seemingly accelerated sensuous mnemonic tableau [or, as it were, interior ‘clip’] of my memories of teaching Audrey to operate ‘her’ [although registered, for insurance purposes, in Dr. and Mrs. Sipe’s legal name] new Mazda coupe’s five speed ‘stick’ transmission in a Lower Squankum parking lot filled with myriad parallel angled lines, Audrey’s fulgent auburn hair untied or ‘down’ and chewing some type of bright blue gum, the compartment awash in sunlight and her yearly Christmas saffron bath gel’s scent, the noisome sound of her breathing and shapes of her leg as she worked the relevant pedals up and down, the sotto voce profanities when we lugged, bucked or stalled with soft squeals and bit lip and—[“Do stop”]—and thus, in the renewed, brief, ‘stunned’ silence after the M.D.’s second diagnosis, I myself forgot to feel triumph, ‘vindication’ or even any confusion at the apparent or paradoxical sleep ‘verdict’’s reversal. My heart had, as it were, ‘sunk’ several inches; I missed our Audrey terribly; I wanted now to go alone to help her pack and Withdraw and be borne back home [notwithstanding my foot’s by now being almost numb or ‘asleep,’ I could and would not uncross my legs], to drive at rates well in excess of the posted limit and to storm the out-of-State dormitory or ‘castle’ or ‘enceinte’ or machicolated banishment’s donjon’s fortifications and to pound, smite or ring its massive, oaken front door’s bell in the middle or wee hours of the night and loudly say, avow or cry aloud what may and
must never even be remotely thought or ‘dreamt of ’ [unlike, it went without saying, ‘Father’]. I felt very nearly over-whelmingly fatigued, melancholy, worn down and desolate or ‘alone,’ and my wet bottom or prostate throbbed, as well, gripping the burled arms’ sides in order to sit up erect), with the more pronounced or ‘acute’ E.E.G. spiking, verifiably associated with each time interval just prior to her sitting bolt up-right and crying out, clearly indicating—‘almost textbook’ being the Sleep specialist’s term of professional admiration for Hope’s E.E.G.’s distinctive ‘Theta’ wave’s spikes or ‘nodes’—Hope’s being, at each crucial, accusatory juncture, in ‘stage Four,’ the well known ‘Paradoxical’ stage of sleep associated with muscular paralysis, rapid eye movement and oneiric dreaming. From the inner construction area, two distinct hammers’ rapid sounds of impact overlapped or ‘mated’ briefly for a moment, one then ceasing and the other seeming to grow more vehement in compensation. I then either imagined, hallucinated or witnessed Dr. ‘Desmondo-Ruiz’’s—the large eyed Latin administrator’s or compère’s—mouth mouth, very distinctly, the word ‘Su-i-cide,’ sans any emergent sound. Hope, meanwhile, leaning slightly and somewhat aggressively forward over tightly crossed legs in her chair, was asking the Sleep specialist, Dr. Paphian, in her familiarily brittle or affectedly composed and unreactive way, to please allow her to ‘get [her] facts straight here’: was the Sleep team saying that it was her husband Mr. Napier here who was, in point of fact, asleep and truly snoring, or that in reality it was ‘[Hope]’ who was asleep and dreaming (or, ‘fantasizing’ or, ‘making up’) the whole snoring issue ‘out,’ as it were, of ‘thin air’? I myself remaining seated erect (or, “. . . up!”) with my legs tightly crossed and neutrally covering first one eye and then the other, meanwhile.