We approach the building at a run. He is running, I am fast walking behind him, carrying a bag larger than his little brother. He flings open the door to the sleep clinic and runs towards the elevator. This is exciting. I have promised him electrodes. Little brother and Daddy are staying home tonight and only Connor will sleep in the clinic with Mommy.
We check in and are shown to our room. Connor inspects the room quickly, ooo and ahhing over the shower once he sees it’s equipped with a shorter nozzle for little ones or patients in wheel chairs. He is certain to secure a promise from me that he will be able to take a shower in it in the morning. He sits so patiently asking the nurse no less than one hundred questions about the electrodes, paste and wires. He wants to know what the wires do, where they will attach and what she will see when she monitors it on the computer. He’s brave. Not bothered by hard plastic taped under his nose or the electrodes attached to his scalp. I call him robot-boy. We talk about what super-powers he has with his new wire Super-suit. He is sleepy.
Three hours past his normal bedtime the nurse intercoms into the room. Would we like something to drink? A soda? Perhaps a muffin or a pack of crackers? Connor blurts out, “I’ll have a soda, and a muffin please.” “Nice try,” I respond. I order a Ginger Ale and ice water for Connor. It makes me feel guilty. I feel bad that he can’t have a muffin, but he’s tired and I don’t want him awake any longer because it’s been a long day, (for me).
I settle him in and grab Percy Jackson and The Lightening Thief. Some of my friends think I’m ridiculous for reading this book to him. It’s too old for him. Their kids don’t know words like hallucination or quest. Their kids don’t ask them questions about the Greek Gods and the history of man. Their kids aren’t captivated by chapter books. Mine is. He can’t get enough of it. The main character has ADHD. I remind him of this every time I read it to him. ADHD kids can be heroes too. I read. He sleeps.
We wake once in the night, because he’s woken up and frightened by the thing taped under his nose. He panics, he wants it off. The nurse says they’ve gotten enough data from it and removes it. He falls back into the bed on his side and resumes the snoring and kicking.
In the morning, I am told that he did not sleep well. He snored, kicked, talked and ground his teeth all night. I knew that he snored a little, but I didn’t know it was this serious. He’s not sleeping well. I learn that it is possible that although he is sleeping for 12 hours, he’s really only sleeping five. This could account for the years of difficulty focusing, hyperactivity and defiance. After years of taking one step forward and two steps back, I feel like we are standing on solid ground. We can fix this.
When we walk out of the sleep clinic; he is not running. He is not excited, but I am. His euphoria has worn off, but mine is just beginning. I am exhausted from a night of sleep deprivation, but I can’t stop smiling. We head off to Starbucks to celebrate with a cup of coffee and a hot chocolate. The sun rise is beautiful.
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