An Insomniac’s Tale

I find myself laying in bed on most nights lately, next to my beloved other half, humming a parody to Miley Cyrus’ “We Can’t Stop.”

And He Can’t Stop, 

And He Won’t Stop,

I Can’t Sleep, Sleep ain’t coming,

Can’t do nothin’ but Blo-og-ing.

Yeah, Yeah 

This has nothing to do with the fact that I’m super into blogging right now but everything to do with the fact that Chris will not shut the fuck up. If snoring were a sport worthy of Gold in the Olympics, we would be living in a 15-bedroom mansion, chiseled out of marble, in the Swiss Alps. All paid for through our endorsement deals with Serta and Lunesta. I’d say “a girl can dream” but it does not apply to my current situation because every time I even try to nod off and shut my eyes, I’m basically just taking a few prolonged blinks.

He works the night shift 40 hours a week and is currently a full time student. Most importantly, he is a full time chauffeur, masseuse, therapist, dishwasher, and chef, (i.e. boyfriend.) I get it. He’s worn out. He’s not just worn out, he’s exhausted. I totally understand that. But there is no explanation for the noise that comes forth from his voice box. The sound is not human. Thankfully, there are nights where he will come in after me because he wanted to finish up some homework and I’ve been lucky enough to pass out before him. Even then however, I’m jolted from my slumber out of fear. There’s a tornado, take cover! Nope, just Chris.  His arms scattered across my chest, legs wrapped around mine and his nose and mouth directed right toward my ear, not a foot away.

And there is no waking him. He is the soundest sleeper I have ever met. Alarms do not work. Pinching, kicking, kissing, and pushing off the bed, hot water, and cold water, screaming; nothing works. You’d think he was knocked out by Mike Tyson. But, when that one in one hundredth attempt finally works, you’re done for. It’s over. Danger: Do not approach the hibernating bear. He will turn into a ferocious beast and he’s coming for you. That’s an exaggeration, he most just turns over with a mumbled: “What, I was snoring? I don’t snore. Go back to bed.”

I’ve tried it all and I even sleep on the couch sometimes, which I hate because I want to sleep next him. We bought new pillows and Breathe Right Strips but those are a joke in and of themselves. Sleeping on his back is the worst because it fills the whole room and practically wakes the neighbors. When he sleeps on his sides the noise is either in my ear or bouncing off the walls and right back out at us. It’s amazing to me that he doesn’t wake himself.  And if he sleeps on his stomach, it’s only muffled by the fact that his face is dug into the pillow and the hypochondriac in me is scared he will suffocate. This is when pushing and shoving and shaking ensue.

I did a bit of WebMDing on what causes snoring and the impact it can have on a person’s life. I’m now devastatingly convinced that he might die from “carotid artery atherosclerosis, the risk of brain damage and of stroke” and now insistent that we call his dentist first thing on Monday morning and have an appliance called a “mandibular advancement splint” molded just for him. I also have been persistently alluding to an appointment to have a sleep study done. You know, because we have so much money. Realistically, I understand that in the meantime I’ll have to invest in some earplugs and hope that they drown out the bombing vibrations from his vocal chords.

This morning, when I awoke, I noticed that he’s lying on his side, watching me as I sleep. I smile good morning and slide myself into the crook of his arm and rest my head on his chest. My favorite place to be. He says, “How did you sleep?” I say “fine.” He says, “You know what babe?” “Hmm?” I sleepily reply. “You’ve been snoring loudly all morning. You woke me up an hour ago.”