APNEA
09/22/20105:07 pm
I thought I would write about my recent sleep-study at the hospital. In a sense, I went into it with eyes-wide-open: and that would be both a literal and figurative truth. The word apnea (which I apparently have) comes from the Greek language and it means, “cessation of breath,” this occurs many times throughout a typical night.
For my first sleep-study a couple of weeks ago I arrived at 7:30 pm and was taken to a room not unlike a typical motel room in a modest chain. I was asked if I wanted anything... snack, soft drinks, etc? I declined but thought I might be able to get used to this: color television, quiet room, and some stranger offering me food and drinks for free.
The queen-size bed was completely covered with long cords, wires, and small devices that would later be used to attach to more than 15 different spots on my body. I sat down in the chair and turned the television on and began watching the opening night of the NFL football season: I tried to avoid looking at what lay on the bed. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is... I could not imagine what it was going to be like to be hooked up like Frankenstein's Monster and still trying to fall asleep. I was already imagining another long night tossing and turning waiting for daylight so I could get up.
Soon, a young man came in and said he was ready to plug me in. “Great,” I thought, “just what I need.” He started by parting my hair in many different places and then with a cloth tape-measure he measured from my chin to a spot on the nape of my neck: then with a red-marker in hand he marked a spot on top of my head that would represent the exact middle of my head. After this he continued making a small red “X” in about seven or eight more spots on the top of and around my head. I was starting to get concerned: after all, I am in a hospital and maybe this guy has mistaken me for some poor sap who is about to have brain surgery?
After watching Favre throw another bad pass I am deciding whether or not to ask him some questions in order to see how knowledgeable he is about what all a “sleep study” (and not brain-surgery) entails? Then, if he begins with... “Well, you really won't feel any pain, you will be given a local shot to numb the skin, but when we open up the Medulla oblongata it has no nerve endings which would cause you to feel...”
“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE BUSTER... YOU'RE IN THE WRONG ROOM!” Well, as you might imagine... that scene never played out: because, it turned out that he was somewhat knowledgeable about sleep studies after all. Approximately 20 minutes later I am wired from my lower ankles to the top of my head. There are also two belts around me: one is chest-high and the other one is a few inches lower. He then hangs a black module around my neck that has all of the leads running into it. After he leaves I shuffle (literally because the leads are not that long which are hooked from my lower legs to the box around my neck) to my third floor window and look out on the black night. The Louisville skyline is pretty and glowing with light; and it's only about three miles southwest from where I am standing: hooked up as I was and staring through a large plate-glass window. Interstate 65 is especially busy tonight as seemingly endless miles of cars are roaring past just off to my right and no more than 50 feet below me. I imagine somewhere a small child is on a road trip with their family and they are now crying hysterically and saying, “Mommy, I swear, up there in that window there was this big monster with wires and cords coming out of it everywhere... and... and... it was staring right at me!” IT LIVES!!! After I grew weary imagining how many little children I am possibly scaring I left the window and watched the rest of the game... just gotta hate those Saints.
After the game I was told to lay down in the dark room and stare at the ceiling with my eyes wide-open. This is easy, I thought, same thing I do every night at home. A disembodied voice coming from my night-stand told me to look up, then down, five times each without moving my head. Now, left to right, same number of times and in the same manner. Blink same number of times: this guy apparently has an OCD and it has to do with the number five. Last of all I was told to make a “snoring sound.” Earlier they had taped a small microphone on my neck and I suppose they were now trying to establish a normal tone? I am not sure the reason: regardless, I had to balk at that request. Now, I actually enjoy doing this with my grandchildren while at play. I mean, just last week while driving some of them home from school I heard singing coming from the backseat in little girl voices... “It's raining it's pouring, the old man is snoring.” On cue I obliged with a snort and a long whistling sound. Much to the delight and the squeals of laughter from the girls in the backseat... and cries of, “Do it again... do it again!”
“Okay,” I said, “you sing it again... and I'll do it again.” To the which, they did and I did and they did and I did and they did and I did... I think this would have been a very long drive had I not cut this little game short by stopping at Zestos and bribing them with kid cones. I tell you that story so that you might understand under certain circumstances and for the right people... I'll gladly entertain. But, not tonight and not for this person I had just met. I paused, “How about a whistle or something instead?”
This time the disembodied voice (which remarkably now sounded like Carlton the doorman from the Rhoda show) told me to slowly count to five instead of making a snoring, or apparently even a whistling sound. Now though I'm somewhat torn, thinking of him as Carlton I am actually more ready to entertain: instead though... 1-2-3-4-5. Why was I not surprised that he asked me to stop at five?
Probably ninety minutes later as I have torn the bed apart by rolling around and everything is in a heap in the middle I hear Carlton's voice, again coming from my night-stand. “Mr. Johnson, is there anything we can get for you to help you get to sleep?”
“Yes, I said, “do you have something that makes noise?” When for years you have lived with dogs... quiet can be especially “noisy.” An older lady (where did she come from) brought in a sound machine and turned it on for me. Finally, with ocean waves crashing in my left ear... I fell asleep. Apparently not for long because in a while I heard Carlton ask what I was doing sitting up on the side of the bed. It's amazing, evidently they can see you even in a very dark room. “I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but I need unhooked so I can go to the bathroom.” I probably wasn't his most favorite patient in sleep study that night.
Ten days later I get a call from the doctor's office who had prescribed the sleep-study, they had the results. More than 25 episodes per hour of apnea (cessation of breath) is considered severe. I averaged 23.8 times per hour with more than 40 partial occlusions (airway being blocked) and twice... complete occlusions. They wanted another test, this time hooked up to a CPAP machine.
I completed this particular sleep-study last evening while hooked up to a machine that pumps air into your airways, and this is done through the entire night. Imagine taking your vacuum cleaner and reversing the intake hose and placing it into the exhaust hole. After doing this put the end of the plastic hose into your nostrils and then switch it on! Oh, by the way... have a good night's sleep.
This time I had a different attendant, Bill, he was actually quite proficient and very good at what he does: and before you ask, I honestly don't know what happened to Carlton? Bill told me that he has used a CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) machine since 1998 for his apnea. He sets his at 25. Although I have no idea exactly what 25 stands for... I do know that higher numbers mean that more air is being forced into your body. He tells me that he is going to start me at five. Easy, I think... that's only 1/5 what he uses... piece of cake. He tells me to get comfortable before he turns it on. I lay back and do what I always do when I get in a bed and the sheet is tucked... I kick until everything is loose: my dogs have to breathe.
He turns out the light and as he is stepping into the hallway he says, “Now, when I turn it on... don't panic, just try to breathe normal.” Panic, me... who does he think he's talking to? I mean, what's a five (whatever “five” actually means) to a guy like me? Suddenly, the machine comes on. GOOD LORD... I'm in a wind-tunnel!
First of all, typically I don't breathe through my nose... now I'm being forced to. In fact, now whenever I open my mouth all of the air is coming out in little “popping sounds.” (I suppose there is so much air being forced into my throat and mouth that it has to come out somewhere?)
Believe it or not, like most things in life we learn how to handle something. After a little while I am opening my mouth at different angles to see if the sound changes? It doesn't, or if it does it must be so sleight that I can't tell. Finally, I fall asleep!
The next morning he said it appeared that the study went very well, and for most of the night he had me at ten... and at one point he “dialed it up” to 12. Glad I was asleep for that one. At that point my lungs were probably like the Grinch's heart... having grown three times larger in only seconds.
This time I didn't shower at the hospital. Bill was trying to beat the early morning rush across the Kennedy bridge into Louisville. I showered as soon as I got home. Did I forget to tell you about the thick goo they plaster on your head and through your hair in order to hold everything in place. It seems that only water hot enough to boil a lobster can remove the stuff.
I suppose I will soon have one of those vacuum wannabes on my own night-stand. In some future blog... perhaps I'll tell you how that works out.
You can always email me at clarkmatthews1@aol.com
posted by Robin Johnson @ 5:07 PM
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