When it comes to getting a good night’s sleep, no snooze is bad news. At least it is for my wife, Sue, who claims she is often kept awake by my snoring, which she once said makes me sound — this is a direct quote — “like Mount Vesuvius.”

“This means,” I helpfully pointed out, “that I have been disturbing your sleep for 2,000 years.”

“It sure seems that long,” Sue said with a yawn.

To prevent further eruptions, I am getting a CPAP machine, which will, I hope, discourage Sue from solving the problem herself by means of suffocation.

Instead of a pillow over my face, I’ll don a mask that will send oxygen up my nose or into my mouth with continuous positive airway pressure, or CPAP, which is one of the most common treatments for sleep apnea.

I was diagnosed earlier this year with a moderate form of the disorder, which is characterized by pauses in breathing during sleep.

“The result is less bad breath,” I told Sue, trying to put a positive spin on my nighttime noise.

“Go brush your teeth,” she responded. “And face the other way.”

I did both when I participated in a sleep study that required me to spend the night in a hospital while Sue slept peacefully at home.

A very nice technician named Raminder hooked me up with enough wires to fry a hippo, put a flow sensor under my nose and said nighty-night.

The next morning I went home, bright-tailed and bushy-eyed.

A couple of weeks later I met with Dr. Mohammad Amin, who said the oxygen level in my brain was low.

“That wouldn’t surprise my wife,” I said.

“You should get a CPAP machine,” Dr. Amin suggested.

Before that could happen, however, I had to go back to the hospital for another overnight stay, this time with the machine.

Raminder was again my sleep technician.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I told her.

“What would your wife say?” she asked.

“She’d say thank you for giving her some peace and quiet,” I replied.

Before covering me with electrodes, bands and sensors, Raminder showed me the CPAP machine, which was the size of a clock radio and sat on a table next to my bed.

She explained that I could wear three kinds of masks: a nasal mask (over the nose), a nasal pillow (under the nose) and a full mask (over the nose and mouth).

“You should start with the nasal mask,” Raminder said. “We have three sizes: small, medium and large.”

“Which one will I get?” I asked.

“Large,” Raminder answered diplomatically.

She put the mask over my generous proboscis, hooked it up to a tube leading to the machine and turned out the light.

Cool air gently wafted into my nasal passages, but I had a tough time falling asleep because I wasn’t used to it. Eventually I dozed off, but I awoke a short time later when Raminder came into the room.

“You have a leak,” she said.

Indeed, air was jetting out of the side of the nasal mask. The problem was fixed, but I woke up after an hour or two and asked for the full mask, which worked better but was more uncomfortable.

Still, I got a decent night’s sleep.

When morning came, Raminder said I did well with both masks and that it takes time to get used to the machine.

“Once you get it,” she said, adding that I would have to wait for two or three weeks, “you will sleep a lot better and you won’t snore.”

When I got home, I told Sue the good news.

“I won’t sound like Mount Vesuvius anymore,” I said.

“If that machine works,” she said, “it will be a dream come true.”

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