David Wallace - Oblivion

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- 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.