Market Woes Keeping You Awake? Here's Help

These days you can barely turn on the news without being bombarded with the latest on America's "sleep-loss epidemic." But while health-conscious boomers fret about links between sleep deprivation and problems like obesity and heart disease, many aren't keen to start popping pills. After all, what about side effects like amnesia and "sleep eating"? Enter a whole raft of new age-style treatments that range from mildly touchy-feely to downright wacky.

According to the most recent sleep study by the National Institutes of Health, insomnia is one of the top 10 conditions most commonly treated by the $47 billion "complementary and alternative medicine" industry. You can sign up for a $795 Beauty Sleep Boot Camp or, if you prefer something more private, drop $500 on a few months' worth of sessions with a personal sleep coach. Sound like too much work? You could always pamper yourself to sleep with a "slumber massage" or foot-rubbing reflexology session. (Hotels and spas have gotten on board, promoting sleep-themed offerings like Miraval Resort's $2,140 Healthy Sleep and Dreams.) There's "sleep yoga" for gym bunnies, snooze-inducing CDs for the musically inclined and a full menu of "complementary" medical options, like energy therapy, guided meditation and acupuncture -- after all, nothing says "Sweet dreams!" like a face full of needles.

But this new age slumber party hasn't gone over so well with some doctors.

The American Academy of Sleep Medicine has come out against herbal supplements and other over-the-counter sleep aids, a view shared by specialists like Neil Kline, a Lancaster, Pa., sleep physician who calls the data on such products "limited and biased." And although massage and soothing music can certainly help people relax, says David White, professor of sleep medicine at Harvard Medical School, they haven't been tested as insomnia treatments. What's more, sleep physicians point out that because insomnia often goes hand in hand with other illnesses, people who skip the doctor risk missing a potentially dangerous medical problem.

Could a sleep coach or an afternoon playing human pincushion really be our ticket to a solid eight hours? With little hard data to be found, we decide to try a few of the most popular techniques ourselves. We're skeptical, but if it means some serious shut-eye, we're ready to be proven wrong.

Since we've always had a thing for clipboards and lab coats -- and we want to rule out any genuine medical problem -- the first stop on our snooze quest is more traditional: an overnight stint at Manhattan's Sleep Disorders Institute. One of roughly 3,500 U.S. sleep labs whose ranks have more than doubled since 2001, it's accredited by the American Academy of Sleep Medicine, a stamp of approval earned by less than half of sleep centers.
Pricetag for our assessment: $1,900.

As we enter the Institute with our overnight bag in hand, the lab's dim, maze-like corridors give off a distinct horror-movie vibe. Our drab, windowless room has little more than a bed, a few chairs, and the camera that will record our every toss and turn. Then starts the real fun -- the wiring. It's a two-technician process that involves taping electrodes and tubing to our legs, face and chest; cinching a couple of vice-like straps across our torso; and, our personal favorite, a pair of tubes threaded up our nose. Only when we're fully decked out like Frankenstein's monster can we lumber to bed, where our new electronic pj's will measure our every heartbeat and eyelid flutter.

About a week later the results are in: No apnea, as our doctor had suspected. But our REM sleep is below normal, meaning we spend too much time awake or in the earliest stage of sleep, cutting short the part of the sleep cycle linked to mood regulation, learning and memory. (No wonder we're always losing our keys.) Diagnosis? Psychophysiological insomnia.

Translation: We worry too much. Our doctor recommends a crash course in "sleep hygiene," basic bedtime rules that include no reading in bed, napping nor late-night e-mailing, paired with cognitive-behavioral therapy to tackle our inner worrywart. Insomnia, we are told, tends to be a self-fulfilling prophecy; the more we agonize over not sleeping, the less likely we are to drift off to dreamland. Therapy aims to break this cycle by helping people lose bedtime anxiety. The catch, of course, is that it takes months. We decide to keep looking for a quicker fix.

Which is how we end up back in our office, sitting in front of our computer -- perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut and hands resting in our lap.

Sure, we have a deadline looming, a phone that won't stop ringing and an overflowing e-mail in-box, but right now we're working on our zzz's -- on strict orders from sleep coach Jae Gruenke. For $110 a session, we've hired Gruenke to teach us something called the Sounder Sleep System. Its original creator, Michael Krugman, used his experience with yoga, martial arts and the Feldenkrais Method, a movement therapy often used by dancers, to create exercises designed to help people sleep. According to Krugman, the system's slow movements, or "mini-moves," help calm insomniacs' overstimulated nervous system, allowing them to relax and drift off. Krugman teaches the technique in multiday "sominars"; certifies teachers like Gruenke to spread the gospel; and hosts a Web site selling CDs, books and DVDs.

And lately, he's had some competition. In fact, several sleep gurus have emerged in recent years, each with a patented system. Former ad exec Robert de Stefano, for instance, began teaching "sleep skills workshops" at high-end spas and resorts about three years ago and sells "yoga sleep ritual" DVDs and music that he claims helps listeners start snoozing 60 percent faster. Other sleep mavens come from a more traditional medical background, like Michael Breus, a clinical psychologist who has swapped sleep tips with Oprah, has his own line of pillows and helps develop aromatherapy products for Bath & Body Works.

We meet Gruenke in her Manhattan office, where we first learn a daytime mini-move, which entails little more than clasping our hands, flexing our wrists and breathing softly -- avoid that deep Darth Vader nonsense, she says, since too much oxygen actually revs up the system. Our first homework assignment is to do this several times a day in order to lower our overall stress level and jump-start a successful bedtime. Then we're ready for the advanced class, a session on a makeshift bed in the middle of Gruenke's office. When we've settled in, she hits the light and pulls up a chair; we're hoping for "Goodnight Moon," but nope, just more mini-moves. We learn a couple for back-sleepers (hands in a triangle on the stomach) and one for the side (arms around a pillow, thumbs wiggling), and though we're feeling pretty relaxed, we're not convinced it's enough to conk us out. To our surprise, Gruenke agrees. "The goal is not to try to sleep," she says, since the act of trying usually elevates one's anxiety level. Rather, the moves should simply feel good, "like eating ice cream." We like frozen desserts as much as the next girl, but it's sleep we're after, so it's time to move on.