Sleep and I have had an adversarial relationship for years. Were I to be honest with myself, I cannot remember when I last had a good night’s sleep. Indeed, I may never have a good night’s sleep. When I was 9, one of my brothers taped me as I snored late one night (I sounded like a chainsaw). It was embarrassing, but I was able to laugh it off because I didn’t know any better. I’ve been laughing off my inability to sleep my entire life. For 42 years, I’ve snored like a runaway freight train, and yes, I’ve known that something was wrong. Susan has told me that I will sometimes go as long as 13-15 seconds between breaths, and that I will be struggling to breathe when I finally do try to get some air. That still wasn’t enough to get me to do anything about it.
Recently, things have taken a turn for the worse. Yes, I still snore, but lately I’ve been waking up at 2:30, 3, 4:00 a.m., unable to go back to sleep. Were you to meet me, you’d see someone who goes through his day wearing a thousand-yard stare. I’ve finally reached the point where I can no longer deny there is a problem, nor can I deny that it is adversely impacting every aspect of my life. I’m tired of being tired, of feeling sleepy and groggy 24/7/365. Over the years, I’ve adjusted to it. I’ve even forgotten what it feels like to wake up rested, perhaps because I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt rested. It’s amazing what the human body can adjust to if you allow it enough time. And denial.
Last night was step one in my quest to discover what a decent night’s sleep feels like. I spent the night in a sleep lab, hooked up to more wires and electrodes than you’d find in a car bomb. I now understand how a lab rat feels, because that is essentially what I was. All in all, it was a fascinating and frightening experiment.
When I made the appointment for the sleep study, the scheduler told me to be there are 8:30 p.m., since it would take about 45 minutes to get me hooked up. To what, I thought? And what could possibly take 45 minutes? By the time the technician had finished, I had wires attached to my skull, forehead, chin, chest, and legs. I also had two elastic bands strapped across my chest. All of the paraphernalia fed into a box that, if I wanted to move, could be hung around my neck as I shuffled off to Buffalo, or the restroom. I felt like the illegitimate offspring of Frankenstein’s monster and a Palestinian suicide bomber.
Because of the position and sheer volume of wires and electrodes, I was forced to sleep on my back, which is not a position I normally sleep in. It’s also the position where my snoring and sleep apnea are the worst. I was about to find out just how bad the problem really is.
At about 9:30, the technician turned out the light and left me to (at least try to) sleep. At 11:30, he came back into the room, flipped on the light (not making any friends in the process), and announced, “You have severe sleep apnea”. The measurements he had been taking showed that I had been having apnea episodes 54 times per hours. That means that almost once a minute, I would stop breathing, and then awaken as I struggled to catch my breath. Most of the time, I would be unaware that this was taking place. Indeed, when he woke me up, I felt as if I’d been sleeping just fine. No wonder I never feel rested in the morning.
Additionally, my blood oxygen level, which is normally supposed to be in the high 90s, was at 84. That could well account for the headaches I occasionally awaken with, as well as the frequent migraines I experience. Seeing the numbers was what really scared the hell out of me. Staring back at me from the computer screen was irrefutable evidence of just how bad my problem is. You see, I could always ignore it prior to this- because I’d been asleep. Or so I thought. Seeing the numbers, and realizing that I now had empirical evidence of my problem, was a very sobering experience.
Because the lab could not allow my apnea to continue at such a severe level, the technician then hooked me up to a machine called a CPAP (Constant Positive Airway Pressure). CPAP is a small machine that forces air into your nasal passage, forcing the airway open and allowing for normal breathing. The patient wears a mask over the nose, and a small hose connects the mask to the CPAP machine.
In addition to all of the wires and electrodes, I now had to adapt to sleeping with a mask on my face. That pretty my eliminated any chance of getting any restful sleep for the remainder of the night, but I did notice one immediate difference. When I was able to doze, I didn’t wake up the same way I normally do during the night. It was a much gentler, much less jarring feeling, and a rather pleasant one by comparison.
When 6 a.m. rolled around, and the technician woke me up, I felt as if I’d slept for perhaps 20 minutes. I went through yesterday in a fog, but it was worth to find out definitively what is wrong. I still have to wait for my ENT to evaluate the test results, but the most likely outcome is that I will have to sleep with a CPAP machine the rest of my life. The prospect of being dependent on an inanimate object doesn’t fill me with joy, but at this point I am willing try to just about anything that isn’t immoral or illegal.
I’ve learned- or perhaps finally admitted- that I have been tired my entire life. I wake up tired, I go through my day tired, I go to bed tired. I’ve simply managed to adjust to it, if only because I felt there was no other option. Though I’ve known for some years that something was wrong, I’ve had no real incentive to do anything. After all, I was asleep when these things were happening- so how bad could it be? Apparently, it’s much worse than I could have possibly imagined. Now that I know, and understand, the gravity of my situation, I'm tired of being tired. My attitude has always been "I'll sleep when I'm dead." It might as well have been "I'll sleep because I'm dead."
One of the things I’ve discovered is that sleep apnea is a risk factor for stroke. That got my attention because my father had a stroke 11 years ago at the relatively young age of 53. He also snores, and it’s entirely possible that he also has sleep apnea. Could his stroke have been prevented? I don’t know, and we’ll probably never know, but it is a question that haunts me.
At least now I know that something can be done, and I find myself wondering what a good night’s sleep feels like. With any luck, perhaps I’ll find out soon. I can’t wait….
