RELATIONSHIPS | LOVE

This Little Device Used in the Bedroom Saved Our Marriage

It’s not what you’re thinking!

At the beginning of our relationship, during the honeymoon phase, I viewed everything through rose-colored lenses. Anything my husband Ben did was cute instead of annoying.

The way he dug his heels in to prove he was right about any given topic, debating to the death — oh, how cute, he’s so confident and smart.

The way he constantly dropped stuff on the kitchen floor when he was cooking — oh, how cute, my darling is a bit clumsy.

The way he walked through the house with his bass guitar strapped to his back like a bull in a china shop, at times, knocking stuff off the walls — oh, how cute, my baby’s a touring musician and all packed up and ready to hit the road.

Before we were married, the pastor asked us in a counseling session what situations concerning each other we found irritating. Neither of us could think of a single thing. We were in love, floating on clouds with Cupid. Life was perfect.

Fast forward to the present day

I’m trying to sleep, but I can’t. My husband is lying beside me in bed, snoring like a chainsaw at high speed. I have to work in the morning, and my eyes are wide open. After waiting 15 minutes to see if the noise would subside, I gave up hope and sighed heavily. I crawl from my warm bed to the couch again.

Throughout the night, I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable on our couch that’s more aesthetically pleasing than it is comfortable.

In the morning, I look in the bathroom mirror at my bloodshot eyes. It looks like I’ve been partying all night, but no, I wasn’t having a night of fun. It was a night of torture and misery.

At work, I’m dragging from a lack of sleep. I drink coffee to stay awake. My eyelids are heavy, so I get up from my desk for a break. I walk outside into the brisk air, raise my arms to the heavens, and ask, “Why did I marry someone who snores?”

I suggested to Ben that we sleep in separate bedrooms, but he didn’t like that idea. Fortunately, we’re on different sleep schedules, so with a little timing and luck, I sleep through the snore fest. I have an early-morning job, and he’s a musician with late-night gigs. If I go to bed early and fall asleep before he comes to bed — and if my sleep is deep enough — I don’t hear the rumble of 1,000 chainsaws in my ear. It’s a miracle when this happens.

After being awakened for the 500th time by what sounded like a swarm of giant bees in my ear, my annoyance percolated like hot lava beneath a volcano, ready to explode. I felt a mixture of anger and guilt.

The devil in me: I swear! I’m going to murder him in his sleep!

The angel in me: Geez, he can’t help it that he snores. Stop being so mean.

But, can he help it? Ben likes to drink beer, and I notice that he snores louder and longer on the nights he drinks more than a few. The intensity goes from one lone woodsman cutting down a tree with a chainsaw to an entire crew taking down the Amazon Rainforest.

I began jabbing him in the side with my elbow.

“What?” he asks, annoyed that I woke him up.

“You’re snoring again!”

“No, I’m not,” he’ll respond before rolling over on his side.

We’ve learned that if he sleeps on his side instead of his back, it helps alleviate, but not quell, the snoring.

I’m not perfect either

As I rub my tired eyes in the morning, I tell Ben, “I barely got any sleep last night. You were snoring.”

Ben, who’s as perky as a daisy in spring, replies, “You snore too.”

“No, I don’t.”

I know Ben’s making this up to make himself feel better. The only thing I do is a quick snort once in a while. It’s a one-and-done. I’ve also whimpered and talked in my sleep a couple of times due to disturbing dreams. Once, I woke up swinging my arms, trying to prevent an imaginary animal in my dream from attacking me.

My annoying habit when I sleep is that I toss and turn. I flip from side to side like a fish out of water, then turn 180 degrees like a rotisserie chicken. I know my movements sometimes wake up Ben, and it makes me feel bad. I’ve told myself more than once that he wakes me up with snoring, but I also wake him up with my flip-flopping.

A few years ago, when I went through menopause, it was especially bad. I overheated and sweated every night, so I’d have to kick off the covers, only to pull them back up ten minutes after my body cooled. This process would continue all night long. Covers down, covers up. Covers down, covers up. It was madness.

Finally, I’m through menopause and no longer sweat like I’m running a marathon in my sleep. I still toss and turn, but not as much.

Now I don’t feel guilty about disturbing Ben’s sleep. I don’t know if Ben has ever felt guilty about disturbing my sleep. He’s still in denial about the fact that he snores! Then, I took a video of him snoring to prove it. When I showed it to him, he didn’t say anything. He knew I had him. There could be no denying it now, but what could be done? What was the solution to our problem? Separate bedrooms? Separate houses? Separate lives?

A miracle

The answer came by chance as I scrolled through social media one day. An ad for a product to prevent snoring popped into my feed. It’s called ZQuiet. I immediately clicked and began reading. It’s simply a plastic mouthguard worn at night that holds the jaw in place while a person sleeps. It keeps the airway open in the throat. The mouthpiece cost $40.

It couldn’t be that simple. I wondered if the product was legit. I read several positive reviews about it and forwarded the link to my husband.

He surprised me a day or two later when he said he purchased the product. As soon as it arrived, he wore it to bed that night.

Guess what? It worked! I didn’t hear him snore at all! It was a miracle!

This little piece of plastic has been a game-changer. Now, I can get a good night’s sleep and not have to jab my husband in the side with my elbow.

Ben said wearing the mouthguard took some getting used to, but he did it just for me. I guess he’s finally admitting to the fact that he snores.

Some nights, I hear a slight snore, but it’s nothing like before. It’s like someone whispering a soft lullaby rather than a heavy metal rock concert playing in my ear.

I can live with that, and I can sleep through it.

I’m writing this story with my laptop on the living room couch. My husband’s head is also on my lap. He’s napping and snoring loudly. I should get his mouthguard from the bedroom but I don’t want to wake him. I pinched his nose shut instead. He woke up and looked at me.

“You’re snoring,” I said.

“No, I’m not,” he said.