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- and\or 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, horizontal 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.)