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We’ve had several days of sexless posts around here. Will you grow bored with the lack of salacity? Will you leave me?
Can I tempt you to stay with some porn? Here’s the deal: You peek at the porn, you gotta keep reading, ok? Deal?
So go look at the porn and then come back.
******
It’s amazing the difference made by a good night’s sleep.
A machine smaller than a shoe box pumps room air down my trachea each night. This keeps my airway from collapsing as I relax during sleep. If I didn’t use the pump, I’d stop breathing dozens if not hundreds of times a night. Each time, my brain would rouse me so that I could begin breathing again. While I might not be conscious of the repeated wakings, they would prevent me from ever getting into the kind of sleep that leaves one rested. This is a condition shared by people on both sides of my family, and for the past eighteen months or so I’ve been treated.
Or at least I thought I was treated. The pump’s various tubes, straps, valves and fittings are devilish difficult to regulate. Once one part of the system begins to malfunction, the pump cannot deliver the correct pressure to keep things flowing smoothly. While I’d still feel flowing air, it wouldn’t be enough to let me sleep correctly.
This is all very zexy, no? Ok, here’s some more porn.
For weeks I was so wiped out I could barely function. I blamed it on different things before finally settling on medication failure. But when I talked to the lovely doctor who doles out my scripts, she said, “What you’re describing is not depression. It’s exhaustion.”
No, I argued, it can’t be exhaustion. I ran thorough my case again, as I’d like to believe that I can see all the mysteries of the human psyche. Especially my own. She just shook her head calmly and rattled off the list of adjectives I’d used to describe what was going on. All of them could be found here.
D’oh, I thought. It’s not the medicine. I’m just not sleeping again. I remembered how intolerable stupid I felt before I got treated. Immediately I made an appointment with my sleep doctor so that the machine could be looked at.
Do you begin to see why I cannot be without health insurance? OMG, is it time for more porn?
Before the apointment with the sleep doctor rolled around, I happened to glance at the digital display on my machine. “Wrnng:Svr Leak,” read the screen. Severe leak? My machine had a severe leak and I didn’t know about it? How long had that message been on my screen before I noticed it? Why didn’t I even know that the screen gave me a message about leaks?
I canceled a sex date in order to nap. I struggled to hold things together through a weekend with essentially no sleep so that I could see the sleep doctor. And then in the small hours of the morning before the appointment, shaken violently awake once again by lack of breath, I pulled apart every tube, every valve, every strap of my machine and finally found the problem.
Months earlier, a hose had pulled free from its fitting. Being a resourceful, do-it-yourself (read: cheap) kinda girl, I put it back together and duct taped securely around the bad joint. I thought the problem was solved.
It wasn’t. The hose twisted and squished beneath the tape; hidden from my view was a crimp that had no doubt halved the amount of airflow reaching me. Severe leak indeed.
Now I own a new hose, unkinked and untaped. I know where to look for readings on the leakiness of my machine. Live and learn, as the saying goes, then bore your readers with long-winded descriptions of breathing difficulties on your sex blog.
Great move there, aag.
Will more porn make y’all forgive me?
Christina
Rollnrubbr on April 17th, 2008 
Snowbunny
Rodrigo
Hank
aag
SeattleBoi on April 17th, 2008 
Greyor
Mark on April 17th, 2008 
Lehcar on April 17th, 2008 
Damian
Sugar
edwardotk on April 17th, 2008 
gl5280 on April 17th, 2008 
bobbi on April 17th, 2008 
Finn
Kochanie
Roxy
snap1415 on April 17th, 2008 
Lustus Mihi
Barbara
lisa on April 18th, 2008 
nitebyrd
jim on April 18th, 2008 
Michael on April 20th, 2008 
Jerry
