Sleeping Like A Baby

Okay. So I waited almost three years before subjecting myself to a second overnight sleep test. Sure, I knew I had sleep apnea along with approximately 30 million other Americans, but when my neurologist pointed out that during my first sleep test, at one point, I'd stopped breathing for a whopping 54 seconds, I gasped.

"I can't hold my breath for 54 seconds!" I said.

"Well, you did."

He then lit into a litany of possible consequences of stopping breathing during one's sleep (not including the final ending): heart attacks, strokes, impotence, irregular heartbeat, high blood pressure, and heart disease.

So, how could I continue to refuse to treat my sleep apnea?

The major stumbling block? Having to wear one of those ugly Darth Vader-like masks every night. It was bad enough that I've been inserting a mouth piece nightly that prevents me from gnashing my teeth but positions my jaw so that I resemble a baby monkey. Not pretty!

Still, it's a big step up from a clear mouthpiece to a mask with an oxygen tube connected to it.

"You're in good health," the doctor said. "Why take a chance when you can do something now to prevent any future problems?"

I'm not sure why his argument made sense when in the past I was willing to take my chances. Maybe it was my mother's experience. She was ninety and hospitalized with all kinds of ailments. One night the nurse walked in, saw that my mother wasn't breathing, and called a "Code Blue." Not once, but twice. The nurse and doctors thought she'd had a stroke. Only later after my panicked father had driven to the hospital, after I'd made a plane reservation to fly to Florida did the hospital staff realize that my mother had stopped breathing because she had sleep apnea.

I gave in and signed up for my second overnight sleep test. I didn't know until I checked in that this time I'd be tested wearing the C-PAP mask. Now, these masks apparently come in a variety of types. One of the least invasive is one in which small tubes carrying oxygen are placed in each nostril. But there's a downside: You cannot breathe through your mouth. If you do, the flow of oxygen stops and, as I was informed, stopping the flow too often during the night causes the oxygen to escape, drying out your mouth and reducing the effectiveness of the treatment.

But the technician was insistent. "Let's try this one first," she said. "It may be weird at first. And if you don't like it, we can try a full-face mask."


After I was all hooked up and ready to go, the technician turned out the lights and closed the door. Immediately, I panicked. What if I couldn't get enough air? It was like the first time I'd used a snorkel. I did my best to relax, breathing in and out through my nose like I do in yoga class. With some effort, I calmed down, only to feel my left nostril tightening. I was going to suffocate. I was sure of it.

"Bernadette," I said. "Can you hear me?"

She'd told me to call her if and when I needed something.

"Yes, I can hear you."

Thank goodness. For a moment there, I thought she'd decided to take a coffee break.

"I want to try the other mask."


Bernadette fitted me with a second mask. This number covered my nose and mouth with what felt like rubber edges to prevent the oxygen from escaping. It was a tight fit, but I didn't care. I could now breathe any way I wanted.

"Good night," Bernadette said a second time as she turned out the lights.

I thought about how brave my mother had been lying in that hospital bed with doctors and nurses trying to revive her. I'm sure she was confused, scared, terrified. But when I saw her a day later, she made light of the misdiagnosis and said all she wanted was to go home.

And that's all I wanted. To fall asleep, get this test over with, and go home.


I tossed and turned. The melatonin I'd taken didn't do a thing to relax me. I reached for one and then a second prescribed sleeping medication. Finally, I fell into a deep sleep that was interrupted about five hours later with a throbbing pain in the bridge of my nose.

"Bernadette, are you there?"

"Good morning. What can I do for you?"

"The mask . . . it's killing my nose."

"We can end the test," she said. "But first I need you to follow a few instructions."

Like what? I wanted the mask off.

"Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you."

Couldn't she see? My eyes WERE closed."

"Okay, good. Now open your eyes and keep them open until I tell you."

What did this have to do with anything? I was going to rip the mask off if she didn't hurry.

After what seemed an eternity with additional exercises ("Look to the right." "Look to the left." "Wiggle your right foot." "Now your left.") Bernadette saved the day and unhooked the mask.

It's two days later, and the bridge of my nose is still sore. But what's a little soreness if I can breathe through the night, stop snoring, and maybe just maybe enable my husband to stop wearing earplugs for the first time in years?

SLEEPING BEAUTY HAS A SLEEP TEST

I've been wrecking my husband's sleep for years - probably decades. I snore just like 24% of adult American women. Not every night. Sometimes, not more than heavy breathing. But when I get going I apparently sound like an old geezer honking away.

I've tried lubricating mouth spray, Breathe Right Strips ( a barely more humane form of close pins on the nose), special pillows, a snore guard, and herbs. Nothing worked. (In full disclosure, I did lose the snore guard about a year or so ago.)

With the odds of nights spent in my own bed with my husband less and less favorable than nights alone with my cat in the guest bedroom, I gave in to the possibility that sleep apnea might be the culprit and agreed to do a sleep test.

For the same outrageously-high fee of $2300 (before hoped-for insurance reimbursement), I was given the choice of doing the sleep test in a hospital room or in a new Crowne Plaza Hotel. That's like asking a kid whether she wants gruel or pancakes with eggs and bacon for breakfast. I opted for the hotel room.

I packed my fluffy sheepskin slippers and my Nick and Nora pajamas covered in sheep. Once settled into my room, I tried to relax and get sleepy by reading the business section of The New York Times. Exactly at 9 p.m., my phone rang. It was Frank, the technician, who was headed my way.

In all of my sheep-pajama glory, I shuffled to the door and opened it. Frank from Nigeria, all 6 feet 2 inches of him, smiled and entered. Once unpacked, he settled me down in a chair and began to hook me up.

The process of hooking me up took almost an hour. He wadded

gobs of sticky gunk into my hair into which he attached sensors to measure brain waves. He connected multi-colored wires to my leg, my chest, and to my forehead. He gently pushed tubes up both nostrils to register my breathing patterns. He taped another sensor to my throat. And then he asked me if I had to "use the facilities."

What happens if I have to go in the middle of the night?" I asked, realizing for the first time that I would be a virtual prisoner. "You'll have to call me," he said. Right then and there, I decided that I'd whet my bed rather than call Frank. The humility of it . . . Not to mention that I already looked like Phyllis Diller on a good day.

I had trouble falling asleep. Who wouldn't attached to so many wires like a marionette controlled by a puppeteer on crack? Finally, I dozed off, sleeping fitfully and waking up on and off all night. The phone next to my bed rang at 5 a.m. It was Frank. He was on his way from his all-night observation room down the hall.

The freedom of getting unhooked was like escaping from a Houdini trap. I tried to get Frank to tell me if I'd snored or tossed and turned like those guinea pigs for bad mattress ads on TV. But he wasn't the doctor, he said. I'd have to wait for the results.

I'm still waiting. It should be another day or two. But funny thing: I haven't snored since.