The beloved husband is perfect — at least mostly perfect.
He has one very, very slight flaw.
It’s the kind of snore you see in the cartoons where the roof goes up and down.
He is medically fine – no apnea or other conditions that would fix it. In fact his doctor just shrugged it off after checking him out. (Perhaps the doctor should sleep with him.)
If I am lucky enough to fall asleep first (and I usually do), I am fine. If I wake up in the middle of the night, the racket stops me from returning to my lascivious dreams. (I wish!)
The other evening, he said he was going to bed early as he didn’t feel quite right. He’s never done that. (Red flag!)
Normally he sleeps in front of the TV like most other husbands. (Yes, he occasionally snores there too!)
The household quickly rearranged itself. DVR programs like Grey’s Anatomy (which he hates) popped up on the screen and three cats vied for his coveted spot on the sofa.
All was good.
I went up to bed and something was wrong. Couldn’t exactly put my finger on it.
Wait, it was quiet! There was no 747 hovering in the bed waiting for takeoff.
It was disturbing. Perhaps he had a heart attack. Sometimes the symptoms are simple like a stomach ache. I tiptoed around the bed and listened. Couldn’t hear anything.
I got closer and bent down to listen. He was breathing.
Climbing into bed I thought this was great! Then I woke up every hour or so just to check to make sure he was breathing. Something had to be wrong. This was too weird.
Around 4 a.m. I heard the familiar sound. Chainsaw or airplane, take your pick. Maybe a jack hammer. All was well. The beloved husband was once again snoring.
Now I couldn’t get back to sleep.