Once upon a time my husband and I slept in the same bed. He expressed some concern about my sleep time breathing. No, it wasn’t snoring driving him out of our marriage bed; Inhaling and exhaling, a normal part of life, was rather loud. At times my breath seemed to stop. He would wonder if I was still alive, and I don’t know for certain, perhaps he even checked for a pulse. A gasping, gurgling, struggle for air would ensue then respirations returned to an elevated decibel, enough to lure him to another bedroom. My comments included his own ability to cut down the Pike National Forest. He wasn’t fazed. A queen-sized bed wasn’t large enough for the two of us and made his den of slumber across the hallway.
Ready to admit I can be a little slow on the uptake (taking the hint), my nighttime attributions must have swum a short distance down the gene pool, from Mummy (who could rattle window panes in the frames while she snored) or Daddy, a heavy breather happily sleeping in a single bed four thick plaster walls soundproofed from Mum. One of my sisters has dominated the King sized bed away from her husband while he too acquires his rest in a room away from her snores. It runs in the family, I found solace in thought.
In recent months I took the opportunity to show off my historically low to normal blood pressure for a class in health care. Expecting ooos and ahs, I was shocked to see a BP (blood pressure) of 143 systolic over 89 diastolic. Whiskey tango foxtrot, batman! I have Hypertension. On break I called and made an appointment to see my doctor.
Not very long after, just a few days in fact, I began to feel as if I had been up all night. The BP was still measuring concern, I even acquired my own BP machine, something I never anticipated a need for in life. When I finally saw the doctor, and the time frame was ridiculously long, I wasn’t feeling like a spring chicken. Nor a fall rooster, more like a slug. Cutting to the chase I requested to have a sleep study, suspecting sleep apnea. A long wait ensued to get the call from the sleep lab to set an appointment. Of course I consulted Dr. Website, even gave thought to have my tonsils removed. That didn’t happen.
Post sleep study, an event not wished upon anyone, I received a quick response from the doctor’s assistant while shopping. I had been diagnosed with SEVERE Obstructive Sleep Apnea. The way the assistant put it you would have thought I had a truck parked in my throat. With flat tires. Oh, and I need to have the sleep study redone as to have proper CPAP therapy. I was in the grocery store, and I found myself laughing loud enough other customers gathered to see what I found so funny in the canned vegetables. My titration levels have to be tested. What every girl dreams of! The medical assistant wasn’t able to properly define exactly what titration is, but I have discovered the medical field is not completely populated with rocket scientists.
Eventually the sleep lab gave me another appointment, weeks out. Wouldn’t you know, the day of that appointment I came down with a bladder infection. Going to pee every 30 minutes is not conducive to a good read of titration, so again I was rescheduled weeks out. Expletives were mumbled.
The redo was quite the experience. The technician of whom was to take command of my test had laid out all the goop, wires, tubes, masks, tapes, clamps, plugs, boxes. I fainted when I saw all of it. The previous test tech had discretely keep all the apparatus out of site, even apologized for having to put paste in my hair. This little fellow kept reminding me how he had to do his job, while I sat in the chair and became restrained with stuff to find my cure. Across the hall a child cried loud and without end. I feel ya, baby.
The morning came and at the cheery hour of 5:30 am he burst in the door, announcing the test was not successful, I would need to do another test. All I could think was could I just take this stuff off my face and get some shut eye? No. Getting me out of there was again a part of him needing to do his job. His social skills could use a fresh up. The child started crying again, and all I could think was, “Hey, kid. What do you say we go to Starbucks and share our awful experiences. I’ll buy. Mommy can come, too.”.
A copy of the test arrived in the mail and 3 months later I am just beginning to understand the results. Another 5 weeks passed before my health provider, AKA doctor, could see me. No wonder the health care in the United States sucks. I was informed and not for the last time, my Severe Obstructive Sleep Apnea is amongst some of the worst they have ever seen. I needed the equipment, a titration level was chosen, rather settled upon. Three Weeks passed before I got an appointment to get the equipment, and it happened because I called them, they squeezed me in.
Respectfully, the delay in receiving my equipment is due to the overwhelming need for respiratory therapy in the wake of the Covid 19 pandemic. The Oxygen companies are beyond busy, they say it is absolutely nuts with demand. Not having contracted the virus is a bright spot in my life. Keeping safe, keeping those I care for, live with, is positively fore front in my mind.
The Respiratory Therapist is a lovely lady. In another time I think we could be friends.f Because of the professional relationship it would not be appropriate to suggest lunch. I don’t think she would find it palatable to have lunch and listen to me make fun of my Bipap equipment. Not Cpap, Bipap, meaning both my mouth and nose are covered in my new life of sleeping under the gear that looks similar to the game of “Cootie”.
My cat has stopped sleeping with me. I have tried 4 different styles of Bipap masks and have come to accept my husband isn’t going to be sleeping with me anytime soon. The first time he saw me in all my glorious gear he held back his laughter. His thought was, “My wife looks like a Cootie”.
The adaptation to sleeping with Cootie wear took some time. Trial and error, mask leaks (more like standing in the wake of an aircraft waiting to take off as the mask practically blows off my face), worry the machine quit, not getting enough air, and learning I am a mouth breather (And a swimmer, how do you think I make it across the pool?) hence the need for a chin strap to keep my mouth closed (Did I fail to mention I am claustrophobic?). I was directed to Amazon, not the adventure type, the shopping site, and was mortified to see some of the options available.
Instead of wearing more clothing, I found mouth strips, basically taping my mouth shut while I sleep peacefully under the triangular shaped mask of which I now find a small amount of solace. I have a small face, smaller than the manufacturer’s idea of small. The bridge of my nose is non-existent, so to keep the mask on, the air flowing into my lungs, and the roof on my house, I tighten the straps just to the point of a headache. The straps look like this: This is just part of my Cootie look.
I am getting some sleep and have become accustomed to my nighttime routine of suiting up. Unlike the days previous to this lengthy ordeal (It is the end of August 2021, the journey to this solution began at the end of this February. On my birthday, no less.) I am feeling rested, humored, and can’t wait until my husband climbs back into bed with me for a good spooning. When the cat comes back to nest with me I will know they both still love me no matter what I am wearing. That will be something.
shorty tells a story 