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
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