“MasterCard®! Visa©!” – Twelve Monkeys
My brother-in-law played tuba in high school. He was really into heavy metal.
The Mrs. spent a few days in the hospital at the start of the year. I was particularly pleased that she waited until January 1 so that the deductible for the year was met, and I will be particularly cross if she has to go back next year.
I mean, she should have some compassion. The deductible is a lot.
Several good things and a mystery came out of the hospital stay. The mystery is why she was there in the first place. I mean that. The symptoms clearly required hospitalization, and the symptoms typically mean that some of her organs would be permanently damaged.
Nope. After being there, the organs that should have been damaged (her philtrum and her uvula) were just fine. The doctor, who seems quite competent, says that that means that her philtrumitis was something quite different, and wants to catch her right at the onset this year if it happens again.
The whole “stiff upper lip” thing may be why Bill Clinton hates Great Britain.
It will happen again, because it has already happened twice. I’m just hoping it happens before a new deductible year, but I don’t know if she cares enough so that we can save the $1,500 deductible.
The good news was that they were measuring her the oxygen content in her blood, which the doctors and nurses seemed to thing was important for some reason. “Can’t walk without passing out,” they said. Heck, Pa Wilder told me to just walk stuff like that off, or rub some dirt on it.
Anyway, I have faith we’ll get her philtrum sorted out in time. But during the time, it was also determined that The Mrs. has sleep apnea.
Sleep apnea is where, when a person is sleeping, that they stop breathing. This is, according to experts, not good, because unlike me, The Mrs. is unable to absorb enough oxygen through her skin to live. Such weakness!
One sure sign of sleep apnea (from my experience) is loud snoring. In the case of The Mrs., seismic monitors were set off in every town in the United States named “Springfield” when she slept.
Don’t give off Bundy vibes. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
But “slept” is really not a great term for what The Mrs. was doing: the doctor said that prior to the sleep study she was having dozens of incidents where she stopped breathing – per hour. That tends to make whatever sleep she was getting be interrupted every few minutes.
Except that she never knew it was happening.
When they kicked her out of the hospital, they gave her oxygen. Now, the oxygen helped her, but she still stopped breathing. Finally, a sleep study was scheduled. Because Modern Mayberry is two hours from Mt. Pilot, we took her there for the study on a Friday.
The next day she was bouncy and in the best mood I’d seen in years. The CPAP (Continuous Proton Angstrom Predictor) that they had hooked her up had allowed her to sleep, deeply, for the first time in five years (my guess). She felt great for days afterward.
I bought The Mrs. a huge diamond ring. She asked why I didn’t buy her a car instead, but I told her they don’t make fake cars.
After feeling awful for so long that she didn’t know she felt awful, feeling great was like a drug. In fact, she was counting the days from when she had the sleep study to when the doctor would provide a prescription for her to get a CPAP (Cobalt Piston Analog Platypus).
Finally, the day arrived. We drove an hour and a half (the other direction from Mt. Pilot) and found in a little strip mall where the people were ready to give The Mrs. the coveted CPAP (Corndog Popcorn Apple Plate). We got home, and The Mrs. plugged it in, popped on her mask and went to bed.
And The Mrs. slept.
And got the best night of sleep at home she’d had “as an adult.” I think The Mrs. was exaggerating, but she loved her new CPAP (Capering Party Animal Platform).
Now’s the time to admit that, even though I do have several superpowers, I have a CPAP (Constitutionally Protected Ammo Pouch) as well. One day over seven years ago (note that this is beyond the statute of limitations) The Mrs. said I stopped breathing. I read about it, and, um, a day later I had “acquired” a CPAP (Criminally Procured Automated Prosthesis) by finding the equivalent of that liquor store that sold booze to six-year-olds.
I imagine he can’t even walk when he’s sober.
Sleep study? Doctor visit? Insurance? Why? I have a Visa®.
Today, as The Mrs.’ doctor reviewed the data from her CPAP (Crucially Precious Artificial Planet) I casually mentioned that my CPAP (Chronologically Primeval Ancient Apparatus) was seven years old, and I might need a new one. Gradually my unorthodox procurement strategy came to light.
“Well, John Wilder, you’ll need a sleep study, or your insurance won’t pay for a new one.”
“I have a Visa®.”
“Oh, cool. I’ll write you a prescription whenever you need a new one.”
See? The Wilder Way wins again.