Dr. Sandman

BY DEESHA PHILYAW

Dr. B, what’s that called again?” From his hospital bed, Cody pointed his T’Challa action figure toward the monitor behind Reg.

Reg laughed. “You just like to hear me say it. This time, I want you to say it with me. Ready?”

Together, they enunciated each syllable in “polysomnographic monitor,” then high-fived to their success.

“These wires on your head, chest, and legs will send information to the PSG monitor about your brain, your eyes, your heart, and your body movements,” Reg said. 

“Will it hurt?” Cody dropped the Black Panther and grabbed Reg’s hand. Reg squeezed back.

“Not at all.” 

“Like I promised you,” Cody’s mother, Mrs. Paul, said gently. “We just want to make sure you’re breathing okay while you’re asleep.” She stood on the other side of the hospital bed, stroking her son’s neat cornrows, careful not to dislodge the wires taped to his scalp and temple. Reg felt himself flinch slightly at the mention of a promise. Not that there was any chance the sleep study would be painful; there wasn’t. Rather, he flinched because promises, the whole fraught business of making them and keeping them, were the chink in his armor. And with his nerves already frayed from exhaustion, it really didn’t take much to make him flinch.

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Read the rest of the story at this link: https://www.oxfordamerican.org/magazine/issue-114-fall-2021/dr-sandman