Sleepless in Indianapolis

I’ve been to a sleep clinic before, so I didn’t think I would be surprised by much during my visit last night to Billy-Bob’s Sleep Clinic and Tire Care Center in Indianapolis, but I was wrong. I was working on the apparently false assumption that people in the business of studying sleep and sleep disorders would know a little something about sleep. Again I was wrong, very wrong. The absurdity of it all is impossible to put into words . . . but I will try nevertheless. I know it is medicine, but try to remember who the customer is in this transaction as you follow along.

First there was the paperwork. Most places will conduct an interview when you arrive and put your information into a computer. At Billy Bob’s, they opted not to waste resources on newfangled data storage devices or personnel, and decided to co-opt my time instead with several poorly designed forms. I can understand the need for my name and Social Security number on these various forms, but why do I have to give them my phone number, home address, spouses name, and in fact the same information on all four different forms in differing orders?

Feeling frisky, I inquired as to why I was providing the same information several times and was told that it was because the Doctors wanted it that way. When I asked the poor soul doing the intake whether there was any consideration of what the customer wanted, in this case me, he disappeared. His replacement was a very large fellow that would be my antagonist for the remainder of my stay at Billy-Bob’s. And of course he had yet another form that again asked for the exact same information in yet another order. He also had another document with him in very fine 8pt type roughly the same length as the Magna Charta and he seemed annoyed that I would have the poor taste to actually pull out my glasses and read it to his accompanying toe-tapping and multiple glances at his watch.

This well crafted document basically said that while I was at Billy-Bob’s, they were free to snoop into my medical records (I thought they were supposed to be adding to them), that they could pretty much kill me as I slept and I would have no recourse other than to take the matter to an arbitrator of their choosing (probably Billy-Bob’s Arbitration and Hair Care), and that I agreed to pay for their services no matter how much they charged (here as everywhere else in the medical profession, nobody at Billy-Bob’s had the slightest clue how much they charged for their services) Apparently put off by what he perceived as a trick question, my gorilla sized attendant retreated to regroup and to file these new forms in whichever pigeon hole they belonged.

I changed into my Spiderman sleeping attire (with matching undies!) and settled into what would be my torture rack for the evening. Most sleep clinics use hotel beds in order to give their clients a reasonable chance to get a night’s sleep that closely approximates a normal night’s sleep at home. At Billy-Bob’s, customer comfort isn’t a consideration. I was given a bed that had obviously been usurped from the emergency room. I know that because it was a perfect example of the kind of firm hard surface upon which one performs CPR. With a sleep number approaching if not exceeding 100, this bed approximated a concrete slab with an old camp cot mattress thrown on top of it. When I pointed this out to the beefy attendant, he said the other beds were even worse. Not wishing to further provoke him after my previous demonstrations of reading and reasoning ability, I resigned myself to this miniature slab for the evening and took him at his word.

I flipped on the television and scanned the channels. I found FOX news and decided to be grateful for this singular creature comfort thus far offered. While I watched the boob tube, my burly caretaker came in and fussed endlessly getting dozens of wires attached to various locations about my head and body. We chatted during the process and he seemed to relax a bit and so did I. After watching TV for a couple of hours, my handler returned and turned off the TV. When I told him I could not fall asleep without a TV on, he told me to try anyway. I asked him why the TV had to be off and he informed me that the glow from it interfered with the videotape they were taking of me. He was again put off when I asked him why interfering with the videotape was of greater significance than interfering with my ability to get to sleep, which was the point of the whole exercise after all.

I tried to negotiate a compromise that made perfect sense to me. “Why not just set the sleep timer? The video tape of me laying here awake isn’t of much value is it?” He then confessed that at Billy-Bob’s, they didn’t have sleep timers on their television sets. “This is a SLEEP clinic isn’t it?” I asked incredulously. All I received in reply was a shrug. Apparently Billy-Bob’s was eschewing state of the art (circa 1980) equipment, finding it an unreasonable accommodation. After wasting about an hour and a half monitoring a wide awake, and somewhat pissed off patient, my handler relented and let me turn the TV back on.About a half an hour later, I drifted off to the only sleep I would have that night.

In my previous visit to a sleep clinic, they were very conscious of lighting and took great pains to illuminate the room with indirect light from below so the staff could see well enough to do their tasks without waking the patient. Billy-Bob’s took another tack. The lighting in the room consisted of two 500 watt can lights focused on the bed (and in the patient's eyes) and the regulation 5,000 watt fluorescent standard lighting. There was no other lighting available in the room. I discovered this when I had to go to the bathroom about an hour after I finally went to sleep. When I tried to rise to go to the bathroom, I was somewhat disoriented by the plethora of wires attached to me. My sentinel came immediately and, you guessed it, completely blinded me with a thousand watts of can lights right in my eyes. While he busied himself with disconnecting me from the monitoring equipment, he should have been thankful that I had my Spidy Undies on. as I briefly considered wetting the bed in retaliation.

Thoroughly awake now, I went to the bathroom and returned to be reattached to the Matrix. I laid there until about four thirty or five o’clock fuming and as wide awake as I’ve ever been. The sentinel returned, apparently taking it as an affront of some kind that his resetting of my circadian clock was preventing me from sleeping. I informed him I was unable to sleep and there was no point in continuing this farce any farther. “Get me out of this rig, I’m going to go get some breakfast,” I told him. His condescending response was, “So you want to discontinue the test?” I considered his inability to absorb my common sense tips thus far and decided that explaining it to him would only upset him further and lengthen my time until breakfast, so I let it pass. I’m sure he noted somewhere that I was uncooperative, since I was unable to overcome his monumental efforts to prevent me from sleeping. So be it. At least this unbelievable incompetence was finally at an end. I went ahead and went about my day; the condition inflicted by my captors a reminder of how I used to feel when I actually had a sleep apnea problem.

So if you ever want to waste an entire night being continuously aggravated at what I assume are premium prices for absolutely incompetent service by the most clueless staff on the planet, I heartily recommend Billy-Bob’s Sleep Clinic and Tire Care Center. It won’t contribute an iota of medically useful information, but how many other chances do you get to wear your Spidy undies? Personally, I think the money would have been better spent going to Hawaii for a good spanking by a nice Polynesian girl.

Scottie

Reflections on Manliness

It's sad that boys today aren't exposed to the heroic literature of my youth. Tales of courage and spirit by Jack London; adventures by Jules Verne and Edgar Rice Burroughs; stories of the human condition by Rudyard Kipling, have all vanished from the reading lists of the modern school. These stories modeling traditional masculinity have been replaced with driveling feminized multicultural glop for the boys of today. " Heather Has Two Mommys" has replaced "The Adventures of Robinson Carusoe."

Is it any wonder that today’s trendy male is the Metrosexual? Has modern feminism managed to displace the concept of masculinity my father’s generation demanded of men; or has it been suppressed only waiting to reemerge as virile and unapologetic as in days of yore? Exactly when did it become a sin to be unabashedly masculine? I’m a man’s man in a world that offers few benefits to guys like me. Well so be it. But I’m not sorry.

I like to hunt when I can and I’m a better than average shot. I can dress game, and cook it in many a tasty fashion. I can put a keen edge on a knife and keep it there. My guns are clean, loaded and ready at a moments notice. That’s my idea of home insurance. I’m not afraid to protect what is mine. And I’m not sorry.

My tools are organized, maintained, and they work for a living. They are extensions of who I am and enable me to perform tasks the modern man has let slip from his ken. I can hang a door, paint a wall, wire an outlet, fix a lawnmower, roof a house, maintain my vehicles, and generally keep things working smoothly in my world. And I’m not sorry.

My boys respect me, and my daughter is an independent young woman with a sense of her own value and direction. I know the best way to help them is often to let them flounder and suffer the pain of their youthful mistakes. I also know how to pick them up, dust them off and give them a pep talk when the situation requires. “Get off your cross, build a bridge with the lumber, and get over it!” is my vernacular for “Go Kid Go”. I’m a Dad, not a cheerleader. And I’m not sorry.

My every waking hour is an example to my kids and a testament to my wife. I don’t miss work, ever! I go to church every Sunday. I pay my debts and keep my word. I read good books and listen to smart people. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I know horse puckey when I hear it and I’m not afraid to admit I’m wrong when I am. I’m a good sport when I lose and a better one when I win. I don’t run from confrontations, or delay dealing with unpleasant business. I live by the rules I preach to my kids. And I’m not sorry.

I take my share last without complaint. I can deal with crumbled chips, bread heels, and three Cheez-its at the bottom of the box. I can’t bear the thought of seeing my family hungry. The house is always warm, lit, and dry. The cupboards are full and the phone always works. I’m generous with my time and enjoy explaining an algebra problem or checking a homework assignment. It’s not about me, me, me in my world. And I’m not sorry.

I’m aware of what is happening in the world around me. I work to make my community better. I vote intelligently in every election. I watch out for the neighbor’s kids and stop to change a flat tire for a woman on the side of the road. I know first aid and CPR. I give blood. I’ve served my country in the military. I report crimes to the police. I don’t do these things because I particularly want to or because I expect some kind of reward; I do them because it’s my duty to do these things. And I’m not sorry.

I love my country, warts an all. And I'm getting pretty sick of hearing about nothing but the warts all the time from people that don't appreciate or invest in this great nation of ours. I know we're not perfect, but the naysayers that take cheap shots at my beloved homeland do it in the only land on earth that would allow them to act the way they do. I don't love my government, or trust it much anymore; but, I'll take it over any other system on this planet. Yes I'm a patriot. And I'm not sorry.

I’ve sent three boys into the world with a pretty good blueprint to follow. They are young men now. None of them know what color “Windswept Ocean” is, or what the latest fashion is, and none of them care. They all know the importance of work and discipline. They are searching for their own paths in life; but they have a good sense of what is expected of them. I’m a doting grandfather now. An anachronism perhaps and getting older for sure, but I’m a man in the classic traditional sense of the word. And I’m not sorry!

Scottie

Little Charlie & Me

It was a brisk Sunday morning in the Heartland, not long ago when it happened. Little Chloe was scampering about the house locating her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes to put on for church. The Missus was already over at the Lord’s house, practicing with the rest of the English bell choir for the services this week, and little Charlie was engaged in his favorite pastime, sleeping. I was having a cup of coffee and trying desperately to get my motor running for the day ahead. The cat’s had been fed and were lounging about the house in their favorite napping spots and the house was fairly quiet. A time of quiet reflection gave me pause and I took the opportunity to look upon little Charlie’s sleeping countenance as he began to stir.

The Missus had laid out his church clothes, not much bigger than a pair of handkerchiefs, a bottle and a diaper with orders to have the grandchildren ready for church when she returned from rehearsal. Chloe circulated up and down the stairs, the progress of her dressing evident with each loop through the stairwell. I picked up my grandson and marveled at the heft of him. Then I set about disrupting his leisurely waking process by stripping off his night clothes and dressing him for church. He put up quite a struggle, but all the old moves returned as Poppy deftly swapped out his diaper and popped him into his clean duds.

Little Charlie didn’t take kindly to this whirlwind of activity and he conveyed his displeasure with a series of red faced grunts accompanied by gymnastic squirming. At least he did until Poppy finished dressing him and wrapped him back up in his blanket. Cradling him in the crook of my comparatively huge left arm, I produced the holy grail of infants, a warm bottle of yummy formula. I zeroed in on his intake port with the nozzle and he immediately quit squirming and got down to business. As he feasted on his bottle, I settled into the moment and watched him intently. And in his placid little face, in the quiet of the house, on a brisk winter morning, on the Lord’s Day, I caught a fleeting glimpse of another face looking back at me; the face of the living God. I solemnly thanked Him for this awesome gift; for the moment, for the glimpse, for this precious child.

Scottie