Last year my sister handed me a newspaper clipping at her kitchen table. She had circled a request for a medical survey on sleeplessness. Beth Israel Hospital was paying $1500 to those candidates completing the 10-day experiment. I was broke and called the clinic. The receptionist scheduled an interview for later that morning. My sister taught at a college down the street from Beth Israel and drove me into the Fenway. I walked over to the hospital. I had been born in its Richardson House. This was my first visit since that day.
On the fifth floor I was met by the doctor directing the test. "Basically you have to stay up 60 hours straight. Someone will be with you. This experiment is to see how far a human can go without sleep."
I had been on a coke binge for two-days. This had to be easier. I agreed to the test, however I failed the physical. My liver readings were redlining from a session of drinking vodka with my brother-in-law. We were celebrating a Celtics victory.
My younger sister later informed me that 60-hours sleep deprivation could cause lasting mental problems. She was glad I hadn't submitted to the test, but I thought about those 'enhanced techniques' used by the CIA on the thousands of suspects passing through the off-shore torture camps. Vice President Cheney always insisted that losing a little sleep didn't hurt anyone and neither did standing on their feet for 8 hours at a time.
I beg to differ, for I've been suffering from jetlag the last week. Too many flights. JFK-Moscow-Kiev-Moscow-St. Petersburg-Moscow-JFK in eight days. Normally I get a good 8-10 hours a night. On Sunday three was a luxury. I dragged at work. My vim was shot. This was nothing. The CIA kept detainees up for weeks on end. Without any cocaine either. Give me a little blow and I'll stay up for a week, but my nerves would be very frayed, despite Cheney's protestation that a little torture is a good thing.
I love my sleep.
I'm old-fashioned about my dreams.
Cindy Crawford, please.
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