Sleepy Time

I try to be careful about what e-mail I take the time to read. I do not, in spite of various outbursts and antics that might make you think otherwise, have endless supplies of free time. That's why, with some trepidation, I opened a message entitled: "Are You Snoring Yourself To Death?" What in Heaven's name would I do if the answer turned out to be "Yes?"
The reason I would even begin to take such a suggestion seriously has a lot to do with timing. Here I am once again on the cusp of the anniversary of my father's passing. The more I settle into my own role as paterfamilias, the more I find myself wondering just how much of my father's path I will continue to follow. And in answer to the more pressing question: No, my father did not snore himself to death, but there were certainly nights that we all believed he might just do himself or one of the rest of us in via the cacophony of sound that emanated from his sinuses and slack jaw. I have made a conscious effort, as I have grown older, to sleep on my stomach.
It was sleep apnea that my father feared would be his undoing. As a result, he made hours of recordings, with his voice-activated micro-cassette recorder of the sounds he made while he was asleep. It was this series of tapes that his surviving progeny discovered shortly after his untimely demise. We had hoped that they might contain clues to the dispersal of his estate, or maybe just reminiscences of his youth. Instead we ended up with four sixty-minute tapes of my father sawing logs. Metaphorically, anyway.
That was many years ago now, but I am still haunted by the low rumbling sound of my father on the edge of slumber. Then today I got another message, this one entitled "Snoring Solution." Would I be willing to wear this rubber muzzle every night to avoid the onset of Obstructive Sleep Apnea, which is associated with greater risk of hypertension and cardiovascular diseases. Or so I've been told. Or so I've read.