Sleeping Beauty (3 page)

“Why did you say that?”

“Because at the time I only knew about ‘Hollywood narcolepsy.’”

Wendy looks up from the page, her expression quizzical. “What’s that?”

“Whenever they show narcolepsy in the movies it’s always some a guy at a restaurant who flops over into his shrimp bisque and starts sawing logs like a lumberjack. I never did that.” I stop. “Well, not at first. It wasn’t long after that when I had my first cataplexy attack.”

“Tell me about that.”

I love neurologists. They’re therapists with an MD. You’re as likely to hear “Tell me about that” and “How did that make you feel?” as “Tell me where it hurts.”

“I was at work one day and I felt weak all over, like I was about to faint. I thought I
was
fainting.”

“What did you do?”

“I sat down on the floor. The next thing I knew I woke up. There were people standing around me crying and kind of patting my face. Someone had called an ambulance.”

“How long before the cataplexy attacks resulted in not being able to wake up at all?”

I exhale slowly and look up at the ceiling, thinking. “I think it was about a month later. A guy I was dating at the time came to pick me up. I didn’t answer the door, didn’t answer my phone. The door was locked. He was friends with my brother, so he called him. When they got inside and found me, they called an ambulance. I was in the hospital for three days.”

Wendy nods. “So they ruled out obvious things like heart attack and stroke? And then what did they do?”

“They said ‘thank you very much for staying with us, don’t forget to tip the nurses’ and they discharged me to follow up with my primary care physician.”

“And did you?”

“No. My ex-boyfriend drove me home, and then I slept for another week.”

“Did he stay with you during that time?”

I start to well up again, angry tears this time. No need to go into how he got so freaked out by it that he was gone by the time I woke up. “My brother’s boyfriend, Davin, stays with me most of the time during episodes. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have survived the first one.” I roll my finger against the bottom of my eye, trying to catch the overflow. “Or any of the rest of them for that matter.”

It’s subtle, but I see Wendy’s eyebrow raise a little, no doubt wanting to ask why my brother didn’t take care of me. I feel like I have to say
something
to explain it without telling the complete truth. “My brother–he’s a musician–he was afraid his band was looking for someone to take his place and he had to go on tour.”

“I see. Your parents...are they local?”

I shake my head. “They died in a car accident five years ago.”

The mad scratching on her notepad halts. “I’m so sorry. What a terrible thing.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Charmant adjusting the stethoscope around his neck, looking unperturbed.
Empathy training in medical school must be optional
, I think.

“And how many episodes have you had total in the last two years?”

“Four.”

“And how long, approximately, does each episode last?”

“The first one was the shortest: one week. All of the others have been between two and three weeks.”

“Okay. And was it your brother’s boyfriend who took care of you all those times?”

“Mostly.”

“Well, you’re very fortunate to have that type of support.” She pauses, looking over her notes. “During these sleep episodes you must wake up at some point.”

I see where she’s going with this. Barring a urinary catheter, a colostomy bag and a feeding tube, no one could survive being unconscious for three solid weeks. I nod. “I do, but I don’t usually remember. Even when I’m awake Davin says it’s like I’m sleepwalking, just going through the motions of, um, you know, using the bathroom and eating. He would force me to shower, and I would do it, but I have no memory of doing it.”

Wendy turns to look at Brendan. “Motor memory?” She looks at me to explain the term. “We can all do things when we’re not fully awake if we’ve done them enough times. We remember how to find our bathroom in the dark, or what to do if the phone rings in the middle of the night.”

Charmant seems to be thinking this over. “Hmm, maybe. I was thinking it sounded more like automatic behavior.”

Wendy’s face lights up. “You’re right.”

“What’s that?” I say.

“Sometimes the brain of a person with a sleep disorder goes to sleep for a few seconds at a time,” says Charmant. “It’s called ‘microsleep.’ During microsleep, the person can appear to be behaving normally–talking, driving–but will have no recollection of it afterwards. The stuff they do automatically but don’t remember later is called ‘automatic behavior.’”

“What kind of things do you remember from the times that you were semi-lucid?” says Wendy.

“Not much,” I say. “It’s sort of like an alcoholic who has blackouts. Davin says there are stretches of time when it seems like I’m coming out of it. I’ll watch TV or have a conversation with him, or return emails and phone calls. One time we even played an entire game of Monopoly over two days. But I never remember any of that. Well, rarely any of it.”

“And then one day you just sort of wake up–for real?”

“Uh-huh. I’d wake up, and it’d be like waking up from a coma. I flip on the news and all these things have been happening in the world that I’m hearing for the first time. One time my brother started growing a beard during the three weeks I was out of it. It’s disorienting.”

“So you’re sometimes lucid, sometimes responsive during your episodes,” says Wendy, writing on her pad as she’s speaking. “Anything else your brother or his boyfriend see during these times?”

“A lot of binge-eating,” I say with a smile. “I’d be really hungry. Ravenous. They said I would devour everything in the fridge and cabinets and then go back to bed. One time Davin said I ate an entire bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, three or four apples, a bag of Oreos and half a gallon of milk.”

I feel both Wendy and Charmant looking me over, probably wondering where I put all that food. Seriously, I didn’t even believe my brother at first. It seemed like if I had eaten that much I would have swelled up like the Burmese python that tried to eat an alligator and exploded.

“Compulsive eating,” says Wendy, writing away. “Anything else they–or you–remember or observe?”

No way, uh-uh, under no circumstances am I going to divulge the only other thing I’ve done at the onset of An Episode. Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me.

I can feel my face turning red, and I just hope Wendy’s too busy writing things down to see. I don’t have to look over at Charmant to see that he has a puzzled expression on his face. “Nope,” I say, tapping my fingernails against the wooden arms of the chair. “I just remember little things like feeling really hungry and being scared.”

“What about...?” Charmant begins, and then looks away from me like he’s changed his mind about the question. He clears his throat. “When you’re not in one of the long-term episodes, do you feel tired or fatigued at all?”

“No.”

“Sleep patterns go right back to normal...eight, nine hours a night?”

“Yes.” I don’t even look at him when I answer. If Wendy’s thinking about sticking me with this guy as my official doctor after the sleep lab testing is over, I’m going to kick up a real fuss.

“No urge to nap in the afternoon? No sleep disruptions at night? Insomnia or anything like that?”

“No. Everything goes right back to the way it was before. Just long enough to make me think it’s not going to happen again.” I squeeze the tissue in my hand, trying to push the tears back. Crying in front of this guy is humiliating.

“Appetite returns to normal? No more binge-eating?” he says.

“No, it’s normal once I wake up for good.”

“What about exercise?” says Wendy. “Are you able to exercise?”

“During an episode?”

“No, when you’re back to normal. I was just wondering if it would be nerve-wracking to run or work out at a gym if you thought you might faint. Might even be dangerous.”

“I, uh, you know…” I wince, preparing myself. “I surf.”

“You surf?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “It’s good exercise.”

“You’re not concerned you might experience a cataplexy attack in the water?” says Charmant, his lips tight with disapproval.

“I always surf with my brother or his friends,” I say. “They know what to look for. And they’re all floating on, like, seven foot-long life preservers.”

“Did your doctor ever prescribe any kind of medication for your symptoms?” says Charmant.

“Two.”

“Do you remember what they are?”

“I can’t remember. One was a liquid to help me sleep better at night, the other one was supposed to keep me awake during the day.”

He nods. “Probably sodium oxybate and modafinil. Standard narcolepsy treatment. I can look in your records. Did it work?”

I suck the inside of my cheek between my teeth, thinking. “I don’t know. The one I took at night was supposed to help reduce the number of cataplexy attacks. I’m not sure it worked, but maybe there would have been
more
if I didn’t take it. The other one stopped me from being able to fall asleep in the daytime during an episode, but my brother says I wasn’t any more alert than usual, and that I cried a lot and acted out nightmares.”

“No memory of that either?”

“No.”

I watch Wendy write. She taps a period at the end a sentence and lets the pen fall.

“Brendan?”

I thought at first that she was prompting him to chime in as a way of teaching him, but now I’m beginning to think she’s looking to him to develop a diagnosis.

Charmant is silent for so long that I look over to see if he’s gotten bored by the whole conversation and just mentally checked out. But he’s studying me like he’s trying to figure out the missing pieces of my story, all the parts I was too embarrassed to tell.

He slips the fingers of one hand through those of the other and turns to Wendy. “I agree that narcolepsy seems unlikely, although it’s easy to see how the cataplexy attacks, hallucinations, automatic behaviors, and so on might have led to that diagnosis. I’ll feel more confident after I perform the sleep testing.”

He says this like the only person in the sleep lab will be him. I scowl, thinking,
God, how much do I hate this guy
?

Wendy smiles at me apologetically. “Despite his lack of social graces, Dr. Charmant is one of the most promising neurologists in the field of sleep research.” She stands up. “I think you’ll find him much more enjoyable to be around when you’re asleep.”

“Can’t wait, “I say dryly. “I’ll bring the sleeping bag and popcorn.”

“Uh, what should I bring?” He says this stiffly, his expression pained, like the attempt to join in our lighthearted banter is not only outside of his comfort zone, but is akin to having his wisdom teeth pulled with no painkillers. Probably a natural result of treating kids, most of whom are non-verbal.

I stand up and pluck my wallet off the floor. “You can bring the protective helmet.”

The look on his face is priceless, like he’s not sure where he can go with the repartee that won’t make him look like an ass-hat. So he does the next best thing: gets up, tucks his hands into his coat pockets, and beats feet out the door.

Wendy is eyeing me curiously. “Protective helmet?”

I smile. “For him. For when he makes me mad again, and I have to knock him out.”

Chapter Three

My back is towards the street when the faded, dark green minivan pulls up alongside the cluster of people, me included, waiting for the bus outside the hospital.

“Claire-Bo!”

I jump at the sound of my name. When I turn around, the tinted, passenger-side window is halfway down.

“Davin!” I jump off the curb and yank the door open.

Cars jam up behind him, their horns blaring. Before I’m even all the way in the seat, the van’s tires squeal as Davin pulls away.

“Hey!” I yell as he accelerates from zero to sixty as fast as beat-up, old, suburban grocery-getter will move. I quickly slam the door and click my seatbelt into place. “What the hell? Are they giving away board wax up ahead or something? Calm down.”

“Sorry, dude” he says, checking the rearview mirror for the offending honkers. “I hate pissing people off in traffic.”

Davin does this, calling me “dude.” Actually, he calls everyone “dude” unless he’s at work or trying hard to be on his best behavior in mixed company. In either case it’s usually best if he just doesn’t try to talk at all.

“Don’t you answer your phone anymore?” he says.

“Love it when you get angry with me. It’s hot.” I hold up my wallet. “This is all I brought.”

“I left you a voicemail first thing, man. What are you doing taking the Metro? I said I’d drive you.”

I look behind me at the four surfboards affixed to the walls of the minivan and propped up against the rear seats, and I decide to mess with him a little. “I knew you’d rather do dawn patrol.”

“That’s crap, Claire. Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Make it seem like you don’t want anyone’s help.”

“I was fine!”

“Cool, now you’re a liar too.”

“What are you talking about?”

He reaches over and tugs at the back of my shirt. “If you’re going to act all Ms. Independent, you might want to wear something besides a white t-shirt. Where did you end up this time…the sidewalk?”

I push his hand away. “I texted you back this morning when I got up.” I flick the hem of his swim trunks. “Are you going to tell me you weren’t out there stealing the beach,
dude
? If you weren’t in the water you would’ve been at my place three hours ago to pick me up.”

He laughs. “I’m starving…you wanna grind?”

“Am I right?”

He takes his hands off the steering wheel, holding them up like he’s being arrested. “Guilty as charged.”

“I knew it. Good times?”

“It was cranking for a couple of hours, then we got an onshore and everything got crumbly.
That’s
when I checked my phone.”