My career as a human lab rat has come to a screeching halt before it even kicked off. My hope was that two days at a medical center would provide a place to write without distraction and give me a little extra money while I’m between freelance gigs. The study involved a monitored sleep night, followed by an MRI and 24-hour sleep deprivation without caffeine or caloric beverages. “Fabuloso,” I couldn’t help but think. “A free hotel room without a view, an entire night to get to the bottom of my book without the window or refrigerator to lure me away, and material for the story’s hospital scene!” Hell, for $350 and a room with a laptop and no view, I’ll jump over pretty much any hoop a researcher wants. If the good doctor wanted to put me in a giant hamster ball to observe me as I scurried across the floor, I’d strap my tape recorder to my chest to record my comments as I rolled along inside, keeping pace with the Zorb.
On Monday night I checked into the corner medical center at the appointed 7 p.m. and was greeted enthusiastically by the nurse’s station. They led me to a nondescript hospital room and fired off with the usual medical questions, only stepped up a notch. After dinner and testing, I was hooked up to the promised hookups, my hair a congregation of gooped tube connections. I was permitted to watch my brain waves on the monitor. The night tech informed that I’d be on camera overnight. At my request, she promised to tell me what I said should I talk in my sleep.
I was tired enough to go to bed at 9, but it’s hard to sleep with flashing red lights and technicians coming in to reconnect wires one has accidentally pulled out. Then came interminable dialogue between two techies on whether my bed was broken (the culprit turned out to be the backpack I stuffed underneath it) and discussion on whether I’d have to move to another room. But when I did get some peace and quiet, I got very little REM time.
They were nice enough to feed me the next morning before discharging me. I was compensated $50, enough for a few pit stops at Starbucks should the work need arise.
This sucks. No writers’ hell night, and I got a good night’s sleep.
