Who needs oxygen?
I want to thank those of you who have asked about the health of my father-in-law. The optimist in me, and the doctors attending to him, say that he has beaten prostate cancer but our family is still wary and vigilant in making sure the fight is truly won. He will win, too. I’m a peerless prognosticator.
After his unfortunate diagnosis, my wifey decided that I, in turn, needed a battery of health tests and examinations. In classic wifey fashion, she scheduled my tests and examinations to occur during the week she would be out of town on business.
“ Wife’s out of town? Want to meet for a beer and watch the game?”
“No, sorry, can’t…I have to go to the dentist at 9, the ear, nose and throat specialist at 10…” You get the picture. About the only doctor I didn’t see was an OB/GYN.
Statistics show that married men live longer than the feral, single man. This is because wives make us do things like go to sleep, go to doctors, eat right and drive slow. You got to love ‘em, and if you don’t you better at least listen to ‘em. (Statistics show that married women do not live longer than single women…who needs who?)
I have nothing against doctors, it’s just that I don’t like to go see them at their offices. I prefer to meet them at places like The National. I also don’t like the questions they ask me.
“Do you put salt on your food?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To make it salty. Can I go now?”
Anyway, thanks to the fact that my wifey answered my pre-examination questionnaires for me, my doctor diagnosed me with a sleep disorder – sleep apnea. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain (which, come to think of it, would explain many of my columns) and that was unhealthy, said the doctor.
All I could do was shake my head. I’m my own worst critic, no doubt, but it’s like, how can you screw up sleep, you know? I mean, how hard is that? You’re tired. You close your eyes. You wake up and have a coffee. What’s the problem? But noooooo…not me. I have to be all apnea about it, don’t I?
So I go to this “sleep lab” in Overland Park, the nurse attaches about 24 electrodes and wires to me and tells me to go to sleep as I naturally would.
Right. “Naturally.” Because I always go to bed at 9 p.m., sleep in a twin bed with my feet hanging off the end, with electrodes pasted all over me, a video camera watching my every move, and without the cute little brunette I legally and contractually married at my side. Thankfully, I was allowed to wear my own pajamas (silk Brooks Brothers with matching slippers and smoking jacket, natch) but they didn’t even offer me a nightcap. I felt like James Caan in “Misery.”
Apparently, I just quit breathing for long periods of time while I sleep. Well, maybe it was the “sensor” they had shoved up my nose, but for whatever reason, I managed to fall asleep and although they won’t tell me the results for another week or so, I think I passed the test – which actually means I failed to show symptoms of apnea.
Oh well, maybe oxygen is overrated like the right-wing “I don’t believe in pollution” politicos say.