Sawing Logs

Last weekend, my son, Joe, came home from college for a visit. When Joe blows in, so do a handful of other 20-year-olds, kids he has known for years. They hang out in Joe’s room, plug in their instruments, play music together, consume copious amounts of food, battle each other in video games, eat more food, play more music, and gobble up some snacks. Did I mention that they eat a lot?

Anyway, we love to have them around. They’re great kids, and if they’re under my roof, I know where they are. Also, the floor plan of our house is laid out so that, if they’re in Joe’s room, Dennis and I can’t hear them from our room, which makes the whole thing work really.

I'm sharing this Hallmark son-home-from-college moment because you need it to understand what happens next.

Of the many possible side effects of chemo, the one that they failed to mention was chemo’s effect on sleep patterns. I am experiencing the deep sleep of, well, a person on drugs. As soon as my head is horizontal, I drift off and don’t revive until morning. But with this deep slumber comes one little snag. According to my husband, I’m snoring like a 200 lb. trucker, who has remedied his hay fever with a six-pack or two. To get some rest, Dennis has been heading to the couch.

This past Saturday, I nodded off to sleep as usual, and began my cacophonous dream cycle. But on this particular night, the rest of our house was not so quiet. Joe and his crew had turned his room into their dorm away from college. On one end of the house, I was snoring thunderously. On the opposite end, the 20-year-olds were sending up some noise rock, a musical form akin to punk, only less accessible than punk. (At least I'm guessing that's what they were doing. I was sound asleep at the time.)

Dennis, who has a heightened sensitivity to noise anyway, soon abandoned our bed to relocate on the couch. But that spot wasn't any better. Although the sofa was an acceptable distance from the sonorous snoring in our bedroom, it was adjacent to a different high decibel neighborhood -- Joe's room.

I think we can all agree that a husband who tells his chemo-laden wife to stop snoring is a louse. But a dad who shuts the college kids down after the big hand passes midnight is just being reasonable. Joe's friends, all well-mannered people, packed up quickly and left, restoring the house to its equilibrium.

The message in this story is perhaps the secret to an enduring marriage:

When I snore, I'll never be sore if you head for the door.
But don't disturb me, because that will perturb me.

Sweet dreams.