"A Lean, Mean Sleeping Machine"

By Jerry Zezima

When a guy tells incredibly stupid jokes during the day and emits window-rattling snores at night, his wife could not be blamed for telling him to keep his mouth shut.

That is why my wife, Sue, was thrilled to hear that a respiratory technician told me the same thing.

“Keep your mouth shut,” said Devin Moncayo, who was giving me a demonstration of the CPAP machine I would be taking home to stop my snoring.

“My wife has been telling me that for years,” I said. “And not just at night.”

Keeping my mouth open — in addition to potentially attracting nesting animals such as moths, birds and, God forbid, bears — is the main reason I have sleep apnea.

I was diagnosed with the disorder earlier this year after two things happened: (a) Sue complained that my snoring was not only keeping her awake but registering on the Richter scale and (b) I spent a night in a hospital to take part in a sleep study.

It was determined that I have a moderate form of apnea and should get a CPAP machine, which would stop my snoring by shooting air into my nostrils and filling my brain, or what’s left of it, with the oxygen it hadn’t been getting while I was asleep.

This explained not only my snoring but, to use sophisticated medical terminology, my complete idiocy.

So I had to spend another night in the same hospital to test out a CPAP machine, which I would be getting in a couple of weeks.

Sure enough, within that very same time frame, I got an email saying I should pick up the machine.

That’s when I met Devin, who gave me a brief tutorial on how to use the CPAP, which, in Russian, stands for Snap Crackle And Pop.

In English, it stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure.

“The machine comes in two parts,” Devin said. “There’s a humidifier tank that should be cleaned once a week with Dawn.”

“I don’t know who she is,” I admitted. “And don’t tell my wife about her.”

“I mean Dawn dishwashing liquid,” Devin explained. “You have to rinse the tank thoroughly, then fill it with filtered water.”

“If I don’t, will bubbles come out my nose?” I asked.

“Possibly,” Devin answered. “I’m sure they would keep your wife awake, too.”

The second part of the machine, which is the size of a clock radio and can be placed on a nightstand, is the nose pillow, which would be attached to a tube connected to the CPAP and go into my nostrils.

“You’ll have to breathe through your nose,” said Devin, who added that I should keep my mouth shut or I would start snoring again.

“Do you use a CPAP machine?” I wondered.

“No,” said Devin, who is 24 and lives with his parents. “But my father does. He used to snore pretty badly. The walls shook. It kept my mom up at night, so he got the machine two or three years ago and he hasn’t snored since.”

“Does your mother snore?” I inquired.

“No,” Devin said. “Most women don’t.”

“My wife sometimes does,” I told him. “But I guess it’s like the purring of a kitten compared to my lion-like snores.”

“Take the machine home and your wife will be very grateful,” Devin promised.

That night, I hooked it up, kissed Sue nighty-night, stuck the nose pillow in my nostrils, turned on the CPAP and drifted off into dreamland.

The next morning, Sue reported that I didn’t snore.

“You did,” I said. “Maybe you should use the machine.”

“Forget it,” she replied.

The following night, as an experiment, I slept without the CPAP. Again, I didn’t snore.

“I guess I don’t need it after all,” I said.

“I don’t care if you use it or not,” Sue said. “As long as you don’t keep me up.”

“Just to make sure,” I said, “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Going, Going, Not Yet Gone"

By Jerry Zezima

I would say that my wife and I have an open door policy in our house, but it takes us so long to leave the premises that we have to close the door or flies will get in.

No matter where we are going, either together or separately, we need a list of things to remember or it will take us more time to go out than it will to come back.

Here is the list Sue and I follow whenever one of us is about to go to the store, go to the gym or just go crazy.

BATHROOM

It is no coincidence that this is No. 1.

You’d think it wouldn’t be an issue to anyone except a child, who must constantly be asked if he or she has to go before leaving the house, but when you get to be a certain age (old), you become like a kid again.

That’s when you start wondering if the place where you are going has a public restroom.

Sometimes Sue or I will come back home if we have more than one place to go because we couldn’t hold it if our errands entailed multiple stops.

Me: You’re back already?

Sue: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: You went before you left.

Sue: I had three cups of coffee. And I have two more stops to make.

At this stage of life, you find yourself going from bladder to worse.

PHONE

This is what delays departures more than anything else, including the call of nature.

It happens in one of two ways:

1) You are asked by your beloved where her phone is, to which you respond, “I don’t know.” Then an all-out search ensues. It culminates when you call her number and the phone rings in: (a) another room, (b) the chair in front of the TV or (c) her pocketbook.

2) Your beloved exits the house, walks to the car, opens the door, gets in, closes the door, opens it again, gets out and comes back inside to announce: “I forgot my phone.”

Very often, you have to go through the first scenario again.

If you plan to go out, you will receive a call from the person who previously forgot her phone to ask if you can pick up a bottle of wine or go to the post office.

On the way out, you realize you left your phone on the kitchen counter.

KEYS

“Do you have your keys?” I ask Sue every day as she is about to leave for the gym.

“If I didn’t have them, I couldn’t start the car,” she invariably responds.

The problem is deciding where she will put them while she is on the treadmill. This takes some time to figure out — her leggings don’t have pockets — and leads to the following related delay.

CLOTHING

Depending on the weather forecast, it will be hard to decide what to wear. This is where I waste more time than Sue because, if it’s raining, I’ll have to look in the closet for a windbreaker or, if it’s cold, a fleece.

Sue does the same thing, but she will think more in terms of style.

“I don’t want to go out looking like I just rolled out of bed,” she will say.

“You’re going to the gym,” I will helpfully point out.

“I may go to the store afterward,” she’ll reply.

“Do you have your phone?”

“Goodbye, dear.”

SHOPPING LIST

If you’re going to the store, you need to know what to buy. That’s why, like the phone, the list is frequently forgotten and must be retrieved so the person who plans to go out can actually leave.

Before you do, however, it’s a good idea to go to the bathroom.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"All Quiet on the Restful Front"

By Jerry Zezima

When it comes to getting a good night’s sleep, no snooze is bad news. At least it is for my wife, Sue, who claims she is often kept awake by my snoring, which she once said makes me sound — this is a direct quote — “like Mount Vesuvius.”

“This means,” I helpfully pointed out, “that I have been disturbing your sleep for 2,000 years.”

“It sure seems that long,” Sue said with a yawn.

To prevent further eruptions, I am getting a CPAP machine, which will, I hope, discourage Sue from solving the problem herself by means of suffocation.

Instead of a pillow over my face, I’ll don a mask that will send oxygen up my nose or into my mouth with continuous positive airway pressure, or CPAP, which is one of the most common treatments for sleep apnea.

I was diagnosed earlier this year with a moderate form of the disorder, which is characterized by pauses in breathing during sleep.

“The result is less bad breath,” I told Sue, trying to put a positive spin on my nighttime noise.

“Go brush your teeth,” she responded. “And face the other way.”

I did both when I participated in a sleep study that required me to spend the night in a hospital while Sue slept peacefully at home.

A very nice technician named Raminder hooked me up with enough wires to fry a hippo, put a flow sensor under my nose and said nighty-night.

The next morning I went home, bright-tailed and bushy-eyed.

A couple of weeks later I met with Dr. Mohammad Amin, who said the oxygen level in my brain was low.

“That wouldn’t surprise my wife,” I said.

“You should get a CPAP machine,” Dr. Amin suggested.

Before that could happen, however, I had to go back to the hospital for another overnight stay, this time with the machine.

Raminder was again my sleep technician.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I told her.

“What would your wife say?” she asked.

“She’d say thank you for giving her some peace and quiet,” I replied.

Before covering me with electrodes, bands and sensors, Raminder showed me the CPAP machine, which was the size of a clock radio and sat on a table next to my bed.

She explained that I could wear three kinds of masks: a nasal mask (over the nose), a nasal pillow (under the nose) and a full mask (over the nose and mouth).

“You should start with the nasal mask,” Raminder said. “We have three sizes: small, medium and large.”

“Which one will I get?” I asked.

“Large,” Raminder answered diplomatically.

She put the mask over my generous proboscis, hooked it up to a tube leading to the machine and turned out the light.

Cool air gently wafted into my nasal passages, but I had a tough time falling asleep because I wasn’t used to it. Eventually I dozed off, but I awoke a short time later when Raminder came into the room.

“You have a leak,” she said.

Indeed, air was jetting out of the side of the nasal mask. The problem was fixed, but I woke up after an hour or two and asked for the full mask, which worked better but was more uncomfortable.

Still, I got a decent night’s sleep.

When morning came, Raminder said I did well with both masks and that it takes time to get used to the machine.

“Once you get it,” she said, adding that I would have to wait for two or three weeks, “you will sleep a lot better and you won’t snore.”

When I got home, I told Sue the good news.

“I won’t sound like Mount Vesuvius anymore,” I said.

“If that machine works,” she said, “it will be a dream come true.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima