I remember the good ol’ days when a test came on a sheet of paper, and the only thing it really affected was a report card, but that was many years ago. These days the word test means something entirely different. Instead of pencils and Scantron sheets, today’s tests include long tubes with cameras on the end and rubber gloves. Passing them is a matter of life and death, and not something that I can make up or forge a parent’s signature on. The sad thing is that I’m just getting started.

My latest test was for sleep apnea as recommended by my cardiologist after I had just taken a bunch of tests for him. He asked if my snoring bothered me or woke me up. I told him it didn’t bother me a bit, but my wife didn’t much care for it. I come from a long line of snorers. My granddad used to shoot out of his La–Z–Boy from a deep sleep looking for the motorcycle gang that he was sure was flying down the streets of his neighborhood just to wake him up. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the only things making any noise were his sinuses. My dad didn’t wake himself up, but no one in the same house got much sleep.

I’m not as consistent as my elders, but according to my wife I’m well on my way. So, because I love my wife, I volunteered for the sleep apnea test.

Big mistake.

This was no test. In fact, I’m pretty sure somebody was playing a joke on me, because I went to the heart center, got my own private room, and then a nurse proceeded to put skin electrodes all over everything. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I know this lady went back to a nurses’ station and chuckled to her cohorts, “I’ve got this guy covered up more than “I’ve got this guy covered up more than a zit–faced teenager with a jug of Clearasil.”

Each electrode had a wire connected to it that ran to a little box so by the time my nurse was done I felt like the back of a stereo with a record player, tape deck, CD, and an 8–track. I looked like I’d been abducted by aliens and was the subject of some very cruel experiment, but that wasn’t the worst part. I could barely move for fear of yanking out all my equipment. I could pick up ESPN and Showtime in my head, but I couldn’t move it from side to side, and then my nurse says with a straight face, “You can go to sleep now.”

I did my best, but I woke up every hour thinking I had been the victim of a fraternity prank. Needless to say, I slept better when I had a colicky infant in the house. My nurse said I did well on the test, but the results wouldn’t be in for a week or two. As many electrodes as I had hooked up to me, I don’t see how they didn’t find something wrong.

The potential prize for failing this test is a CPAP—a mask attached to an oxygen machine that I would get to wear while I slept. I’m thinking the electrodes and wires would be better, but my wife disagrees. She’d rather sleep with Darth Vader than a motorcycle gang.