I RESISTED SEEKING help for snoring for more than a year, but Bryan’s complaints as a second-hand victim eventually prevailed. I actually never heard myself snore, but he was waking me up nightly. I found this quite unfair. Why should we both have to wake up?

I visited an ear-nose-and-throat specialist on the Upper East Side, right on the same street as my internist, allergist and gastro. She stuck a flashlight up my nose, and after several heavy-breathing exercises, pronounced that I had a slightly deviated septum.

“You could have sleep apnea,” the doctor said. “It’s common in overweight and older folks,” neither of which I—a Jewish 39-year-old creative director living in Chelsea with my partner and dog—was. “Surgery isn’t out of the question,” she warned, “But neither is it the answer.” She recommended a one-night sleep study so she could better advise me on treatment options. The sleep center was conveniently up stairs, and insurance would cover all of it— both good enough reasons to do it.

The night of the sleep study, I followed instructions and arrived on time. No caffeine or alcohol, and I wore loose-fitting pajamas.

Rachel, the pretty, young technician, greeted me at the door in her blue medical scrubs. We talked as we walked upstairs, knowing some of the same places upstate where she lives.

Past the bathroom was the bedroom, outfitted like a guest room: wood furniture, bed, television and mirror. Rachel pointed out the intercom and camera, which wouldn’t turn on until I went to sleep. I filled out forms giving permission to be recorded, and releasing the video and report to my doctors and, for kicks, my father-in-law who had a Ph.D. and a great sense of humor. He once sent me his CATscan.

Rachel and I agreed on 10 p.m. as a bedtime, which is when I would get hooked up. Until then, I watched TV, flipping around until I found the French film, The Dreamers. It seemed terribly witty to watch this the night of a sleep test, so I left it on.

Rachel came in before 10, and I sat on the bed as she connected to me with a white paste to a dozen colorful wires, explaining the role of each: The chest for heartbeat rate; the calves to sense restless leg syndrome (which apparently exists); the edge of the eyelids to sense them closing; the jaw drop to signal REM stage; the head for brainwave activity. Rachel also showed me air masks if I stopped breathing at all.

As she wired me, I saw behind her one of the many erotic scenes in the movie: the French siblings seducing the American in the kitchen. I apologized, suggesting we turn it off. She was sweet about it and said she didn’t notice. Much weirder for her was weeks ago when a woman slept naked for the entire study.

Wired and tired, we maneuvered me into bed. Rachel wished me goodnight and turned off the TV and lights. She suggested I stay on my back, and since I usually sleep on my front, I pretended I was on a red-eye flight to Paris.

This, however, made me think again of the movie and the naked college-age students in the ‘60s, and I slowly got stiff. Out of habit, I rubbed against the blanket and wondered if it all wasn’t just a bit kinky with the wires and the masks. To think Rachel mentioned a woman sleeping naked in this very bed weeks ago. She didn’t know me; was that sort of a come on? This was all way too European—especially with insurance paying for it.

I was now swaying back and forth with my wires, rubbing against the sheets and getting into it. A wire might have come loose, but who cared, who cared, who cared.

Just then I stopped, horrified and looked up. The camera. The light was on.

How big were my movements? My heart rate probably doubled. Did I just throw the whole test off? Was Aetna still going to cover it?

Now I couldn’t sleep, and was afraid Rachel would enter. I certainly couldn’t relieve myself, though for a moment, I imagined the paste could be a good cover. Instead, I thought of the obese or old men who might have been here before me and just tried to relax.

Next thing I knew, Rachel was at my side, waking me up. It was 5:30 a.m.

“You did well,” she said, though without any details. I looked her in the eyes to see if she was avoiding contact.

At my follow-up appointment with my doctor, I asked nonchalantly about the video.

“Oh, they don’t keep those,” she said, looking down at the full report and not at me. My treatment became two custom-made mouthpieces to bring my jaw forward and keep my throat clear. It would cost $6,000, mostly uncovered by insurance.

Bryan told me I stopped snoring, which is just great for him. Every so often, I see a very similar mouthpiece advertised on TV for about $40 plus shipping. Now, this keeps me up at night.

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