TO THE HOSPITAL

Not for anything serious, mind you. I’m a terrible snorer and my boyfriend, who has the misfortune of falling asleep after me sometimes, also thinks I have sleep apnea. That’s what happens when, for some reason, you don’t breathe right when you’re asleep, appear to be dead for a while, and then rouse back with some sort of splutter to get enough oxygen to your lungs. Of course, I’d never noticed it myself. So I’m going in overnight for tests. I guess I’m a little unnerved. I’ve never spent a night in a hospital, mercifully. But my main worry is that you check in at 8.30 pm. At that hour, I usually have half a workday in front of me. And then they kick me out by 7 am. Seven o’clock only happens once a day in Sullivan-land. Well, maybe all these nocturnal hours contribute to my sleep disorder. Or maybe I have no such thing. But my doc tells me that he had it, and, after treatment (it varies according to the case), he slept much better and had far more energy. So maybe I’ll become more productive. Is that Glenn Reynolds’ secret? See you in the morning. Wish me luck.