First, the prescription they (they being the good doctor N. Hale's office) gave was for a trial. That sounded like a good idea to me until I went to the medical contraption supplier of my choice in beautiful industrial cum car-mall Flusherville.
To those folks, trial didn't mean I got a new machine with no risk, a chance to test out various fighter-pilot airs supply masks...
No, to them it meant I should take home the oldest rental CPAP they have in the place.
The reason why it was the oldest is that they had exactly one left - and it was the one unceremoniously dumped on the table in front of me.
The current CPAP market is way slick - units that look like they were made by Bang and Olufsen, grey and chrome, in modules for E-Z cleaning. They come with timers and ramp-ups and heated hoses (!) and humidifiers for cryin' out loud.
Not the rental unit.
It looked like it might have been used as a bubbler in a grade school fish tank. Except that, unlike the new sleek F-18 models, it was the size of a microwave oven.
I was supposed to strap this thing to my palatte and lungs for seven to eight hours a night???
All I would be able to think about was the last 30 or so patrons who had used the unit before me. The last one probably finished three or four nice robusto Cubans just before sucking and blowing into that iron lung all night long. Hell, they probably had a garlic addiction, trying to cure themselves of the Gout without going to a doctor.
I was firm with Bridget, the (well-endowed) attendant at CPAPS-R-US. (I seem to have run into a crazy good luck-stream with attractive-to-me female attendants with which to fuel my fantasies, and avoided the glut of Ivans, Anelio's and graceful Sylvesters out there - whom I usually end up assigned to me in this particular life of misery sparked with Vegas greatness...).
"Bridget," I stammered, "do you think I could just buy the unit I want? I really like the Blo-Med Elite Turbofan model with heated hose and removable humidifier."
"Really?... I suppose I understand - we do want you to be happy."
She sighed and her chest heaved.
I tried to think of other things to say that would try Bridget's patience.
"And I want it to be hand delivered by you, when Mrs. Flusher is out getting groceries at Foodland."
"Get bent, perv," she said, I thought, rather lustily.
Long story short - this would require a change in prescription. This was duly received by the (well-endowed) Bridget a couple of days later, the fact of which she informed me by email. How modern Bridget is!
Fast forward a couple of days later when I was to show up for my 'fitting' and then this... "The Blow-Med Elite Turbofan models with heated hose and removable humidifier's are plumb out of stock. So sorry!"
Another try a few days after that yielded the same result.
And as a result, here I am, my oxygen levels dangerously low, and I am 9 days closer to death by palatte asphyxiation than the last time I checked in here.
Pray readers, PRAY for the CPAPS-R-US suppliers to come through for me... I need a MIRACLE.
And maybe lunch with Bridget.
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