Malfunction

Something is wrong. With me.

I’ve suspected it for awhile, although as it turns out, not nearly long enough. The persistence of other people, E and my doctor, are the reason I’m driving through an industrial park on a weekday evening.

It’s not the kind of place you’d expect to go for anything health-related. There’s a print shop, a computer recycling center, lots of those businesses made out of corrugated metal. I’m wondering if I’ve misread the directions.

The directions came in the mail a few days ago. I hadn’t bothered to even look at them - this appointment wasn't supposed to happen for two weeks. Some other unfortunate cancelled, and I jumped at the chance to get it over with.

My suspicions weren’t very deep – and prior to opening their mailed instructions, I’d half-imagined that this would all be a colossal waste of time. Reading through their pre-appointment questionnaire changed my mind.

Have you ever woken up choking?

Has your blood pressure been increasing?

Do you often feel depressed?

Do you find it difficult to concentrate?

Question after question that I have to answer ‘yes’ to. I started thinking the test would be a waste of my time, halfway through the questions I’m thinking I’ll be wasting the clinic’s time.

Their questions described me precisely – my last two years, anyway.

I finally see the sign I’ve been looking for, and pull into the parking lot. In contrast to the industrial surroundings, it has a foyer with pillars and a domestic appearance. I get my bag, my papers and head for the lobby.

Inside, there are about a half-dozen other bleary-eyed people sitting on chairs. One man is watching the Spider-Man sequel on the TV, but most are slumped in chairs, staring at nothing.

There’s no one at the desk and the lights are out. I stand next to where I think the receptionist would be for about ten minutes before moving over to the wall. I’m early, and I guess this place isn’t run like most clinics.

At precisely 9pm, a woman emerges from an official-looking door and reads off our names to make sure we’re all here. We are.

We all go in at once, and she begins assigning rooms – “A technologist will be with you shortly.”

She’s right. Mine is named Dave, and he’s a decent sort. He talks like he’s been saying the same thing so often that he’s forgotten what the words mean. No inflection, just like a bored stewardess.

Somewhere in the stream of words, I gather that setup will take an hour. I’ve had EEGs and EKGs before, so this is no big thing. There’s actually a few more wires and steps and by the time he’s finally finished gluing wires to me, drawing on my head, and plugging in the garden-hose-thick bundle of wires - I realize I'm not going to have time to read my book before going to sleep.
Dave gets philosophical with me. "I ask all my subjects this: Why are you here?"

"Because I have to know if there's a reason why I feel this lousy."

This seems to satisfy him. He launches into another recitation about sleep. Stages of sleep, purposes of sleep stages, and finally - sleep disorders.

He explains how they will monitor me while I sleep to see how I sleep normally. - Then, if it looks like I need it - they'll put me on the machine.

The machine is not terribly encouraging: A pump, a hose, and a humidifier. I try it out. I feel and sound like Darth Vader.

Luke...I'm your father.

The room is surprisingly comfortable, and as soon as Dave leaves, I'm ready to pass out.
I wonder a little about strangling myself accidentally with the wires, but I'm on video and Dave's supposed to be paying attention. He seems a good sort.

I go to sleep.

-And Dave wakes me up. About that fast, although it's actually been a little over two hours. I'm groggy as all hell, so I only vaguely remember him saying, "We're going to put you on the machine."

- and I'm out again.

At some point, the damned hose is in my way so I wake up. It's morning.

Dave strolls in and proudly exclaims, "We fixed you!"

He explains that by 'fixed,' he means that I have responded well to the machine. This is Dave's overly upbeat way of informing me that, at least for the foreseeable future, I will have to spend my nights hooked up to an appliance.

He then breaks out graphs and charts and begins jabbering incoherently about things called 'this-pops' and 'that-pops.' Then he shows me that, during the two hours of the night when I was sans-hose machine, my airflow was reduced or blocked completely 177 times.

I'm absorbing this when he puts another chart in front of me. "See there?" he asks, "On this one you stopped breathing for just under a minute. Your blood oxygen was down to 76."

This, apparently in his subculture, is something almost worthy of a high-five.

Dave leaves me alone to get ready for work - he's made an appointment with a nice man who will give me my machine and explain its features and maintenance regimen. I'm still absorbing things.

It's pretty hard to know which way to go with this.

On the one hand - I will sleep hooked up to a motorized snorkel, possibly for the rest of my life.
But on the other hand, I am awake.

Really awake. For the first time in, hell, a year or two. The literature tells me that the headaches, sinus infections, and numerous other symptoms will all go away.

I'll dream again. I can't remember the last time I had a dream.

I get my things and go see the appliance man. He talks for a half an hour, makes me sign a bunch of things and hands me my box. He smiles, "Your kids will make fun of you, but at least you'll be able to sleep."

I'm in the car driving to work and I can't believe how different I feel.

At work, I can focus and get things done. I'm not drowsy in the afternoon.

I can't even express how amazing that first day was - and the literature says that I won't really get back to normal for a week or so. I'll feel better than I do now, and now is pretty damn good.

I marvel that the way I had felt two days ago seemed normal. I was walking through fog every day. Headaches, sinus pain - all the damn time. I felt like total crap most days. Sure, I could rise to the occasion and function. But some days it was just barely functioning.

That first night at home, I don't even hesitate with the machine. There's no resentment, no shame. At this point, it's the price of being myself again - I'm not going back to how I was this past year.