Nearly 15 million Britons snore when they
sleep. A quarter of British couples say it ruins their
sex lives and 10 per cent say they've even considered divorce. Hardly surprising, then,
that
some people spend a fortune trying to stop it. Here, novelist ROBIN KERMODE describes his
personal odyssey to find a cure for his nightly drone ...
My name is Robin Kermode and I had a nasty habit that kept my partner awake. Last year,
the problem got progressively worse and, although she was really understanding, I'd
regularly end up in the spare room in the middle of the night.
Single people snore too, of course - it's just that there's no one there to tell them
they're
doing it.
Jokes aside, the effects of snoring can be disastrous for a relationship. So when I read
an
article pointing out that snorers can have up to 30 per cent less sex than non-snorers, I
rushed to my laptop and stated Googling to find a cure.
First I tried Cure snore, two glass jars placed next to the bed filled with a herbal
liquid that
produced special vapours. You breathe in the fumes, which are supposed to 'fill the loose
tissue at the back of the throat with blood and stop them sagging and vibrating'.
It all sounded a bit unpleasant, but I did find the aroma incredibly relaxing, which meant
I
slept really heavily for a few nights - and snored even louder.
The blurb said the jars would last for up to six months of continual use, but they seemed
to
evaporate in under two weeks. Then I discovered that my girlfriend's eight year old
daughter
Cressida had used the solution to make magic potions in the bath. The empty jars now stand
on the bathroom shelf, stuffed with conkers.
So I Googled some more and found the 'anti-snoring pillow'. It was like a large square
polo
mint with an inflatable centre, which apparently lifts the angle of the neck, opening up
the
airways during sleep. It was reasonably comfortable and I eventually got used to the new
neck angle, but my girlfriend assured me it made very little difference to my snoring.
I did read that a German scientist had invented a pneumatic version of the snoring pillow
linked to a computer. As soon as you started snoring the computer worked out the best
angle for your neck and adjusted the pillow accordingly, but I think it was only a
prototype.
I tried several throat and nasal sprays designed to clear your breathing passages. They
worked initially, but I seemed to get used to the chemicals and after a few days the
effect
diminished.
The same was true with sprays designed specifically for colds, such as Sudafed. They
worked
brilliantly for a few days but, as the label clearly states, long-term use is not
recommended.
In fact it makes nasal congestion worse.
Then I tried the snoring 'plug'. It uses menthol vapours, heated from a plug socket. My
partner complained that the smell was reminiscent of a hospital, so it was eventually
unplugged and put back in its box.
Nasal strips were more promising. These are sticky backed plastic strips which are
supposed
to attach to the outside of each side of the nostril, effectively pulling them wide apart
during the night to open up the airways. Good idea in theory but now I looked like Adam
Ant.
And I didn't find them nearly sticky enough to stay on, rendering them useless if there
was
any oil on the skin and pretty high pathetic with the use of face cream (sorry. male
grooming cream).
The most extraordinary-looking device was the snoring cap, an ingenious Heath Robinson
series of straps that fitted over the head and under the jaw.
It was supposed to pull the jaw forward and open up the back of the throat, but it made me
look ridiculous and my girlfriend just got hysterics.
It might be acceptable in the scrum on a Saturday afternoon with the lads, but not exactly
a thrill for your partner - well, not mine, in any case.
As none of these external cures worked, it was time to brave and treat the problem
internally.
The oral strips had a promising start - looking like tiny sheets of rice paper which you
place
on the root of the mouth before sleeping, they dissolve during the night lubricating the
soft
tissue at the back of the mouth and reducing the possibility of noisy vibration.
They seemed to work at first, but as they dissolved, the effect wore off. I wasn't mad on
the overall sensation either, and they seemed to give me a temporary speech impediment.
Apparently, 67 per cent of snorers said they were cured by a mandibular advancement
device - a sort of plastic mouthguard which fits over your teeth to bring the lower jaw
forward - so I thought I'd give it a go.
When it arrived I had to dunk it in boiling water for 30 seconds and then bite on it hard
for
two minutes, as it moulds to the shape of your teeth. When worn at night it pulls the jaw
forwards, changing the way you breathe.
It really did help with the snoring, but every time I wore it felt like it was some sort
of
punishment. And it was impossible to speak when it was in place. Obviously I popped it
into
my mouth after our nightly conjugals, but once inserted, I couldn't even manage a final
'goodnight'. Her: 'Sleep well.' Me: 'Ugghh.' Her: 'Love you.' Me: Mmmm.' You get the
picture.
Another downside was that my teeth tingled for most of the following morning as if they
have
been pulled all night in a direction they didn't want to go, so the feeling of being
punished
continued right through to lunchtime.
Luckily I was let off this regimen when my girlfriend's son Nicholas, aged 11, took it to
school
one morning by mistake, thinking it was his rugby mouth guard. As soon as he realised what
it was and that it had been in my mouth all night, he dropped it as fast as he could in
the
nearest bin with a shriek.
After six months of failed treatments - and almost £300 out of pocket - I decided it
really
was time to do some proper research.
I found that there are three main causes of snoring. Blocked nasal passages, a misaligned
jaw, or a 'floppy' uvula (that thing that hangs down at the back of your throat). As
treating
the first two causes hadn't worked, it was time for drastic action.
That's when I heard about Dr Yves-Victor Kamami, who had invented a radio frequency
procedure - LAUP (Laser assisted uvulopalatoplasy) - to tighten the uvula area, so that it
vibrates far less during sleep.
Apparently 20,000 people have had this treatment and as he seemed to be the main man, I
took courage in both hands and had a consultation. Although Paris-based, he also works at
The Private Clinic in Harley Street, London.
He explained that as you hit your late 40s, your uvula stretches (unlike other parts of
the
body, sadly). As air rushes past this stretched piece of flesh it vibrates causing the
snoring
noise.
What it was needed he suggested, was a little tightening of the offending area. The
treatment is done in two 15 minutes sessions followed by six weeks' healing, and cost
about
£640 per treatment.
He also offered a laser treatment that took just one session to 'sculpt' the uvula, and
had a
shorter recovery time, but that was twice as expensive and apparently slightly more
painful
after surgery.
The cheaper option it was, then. When I told my partner I was booked in for the radio
treatment, she burst into tears.
She said it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for her and couldn't believe that I
was prepared to go through elective surgery for her. She couldn't think of one of her
friends.
husbands who would be prepared to do that.
So with ten brownie points in hand, I set off for my first session at The Private Clinic
in
Harley Street. It had been suggested that I eat before the surgery, as I might not feel
like it
afterwards. Unfortunately, I'd chosen to have a large curry for lunch, and the gag reflex
came into play fairly quick.
But Dr Kamami was very understanding and the procedure was as painless as he had
promised, just leaving a slightly sore throat for a few weeks as the healing progressed.
Six weeks after the second radio wave treatment, the results were extremely good.
Apparently I do still snore occasionally if I stray onto my back, or if I've had a couple
of glass
of red wine before going to bed, but on the whole I'm very please with the overall effect.
And so is my partner.
In fact, she's so happy that I've now forgotten what colour the spare room curtains are.
ROBIN KERMODE'S novel, The
Flowerpot Mam - A Diary Of A Divorce From Nisi To Absolute, is published by Pendle
Publishing, £7.99.
To make an appointment call 0800 599 9911
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