Month: October 2007

Let’s see—not last night—but the night before that I go into the brand new little closet office that we have created for me and my computers to turn off the lights and note that water is dripping down from the ceiling around the outlets for the lights.  It’s not a flood, just a drip.  But what the hell is water doing dripping out of my ceiling at 930 at night.  I feel fit to be tied.  I woke up that morning fit to be tied, and now I feel even more fit to be tied.  I feel that I am going to crap my head out my anus.

I am deeply disturbed to find at 930 at night water dripping from my ceiling.  So Carol gets on the phone and I go break into the utility closet that is right below my new little closet office because that’s where the turn off is located and the water heaters.  And I break in with a screwdriver because only certain people are supposed to have the key to the damn utility closet though it would make terrific sense for us to have one since we live right next to the damn thing, and sure enough hot water is dripping down the wall.  I turn off the water to the whole building, that would be 8 units of people without water.

But then one of the guys from the condo board shows up with the key to let in a plumber and finds me standing there with my screw driver and we decide the problem is just the hot water, so I turn the water back on, and he sets out to turn off just the hot water which he doesn’t know how to do and I don’t blame him because the pipes coming out of the water heater and going into the wall have been repaired so many times and replaced they are like some weirdedassed Rube Goldberg machine.  But he gets the water off, and another condo guy comes by and I say I am worried because while we have turned off the water, the problem is in the ceiling of my two story condo and I cannot figure out how the hell a person gets up into the ceiling above the condo into the crawl space. 

Well, he says—and of course I know—some units have an hole in the ceiling a guy can crawl through.  He knows because they have been trying to replace the TV cable in one of the units and the TV cable people keep sending out fat repair persons who cannot get through the hole in the ceiling.  I mean they get stuck trying to.  And Carol who has got the business manager for the the condo complex and has called the plumber with the OK of the business manager says she believes the unit at the end of our building with 8 units in it has a way into the crawl space.  So we go disturb this person I have never met before and she does have a way into the crawl space at the top of her stairs hidden behind a large pull down light fixture.

But I am still troubled because the units are not like in a neat row; some are set forward and some are set back and it’s a long way from that unit to our unit and I just can’t see with the way the buildings are situated that a plumber, one small enough to get through the opening, could crawl from one end to the other.  I say this to the second condo association guy who has showed up and he says he thinks he has a list back at his place of the units that have openings to the crawl space.  So he goes to get that and finally comes back after the plumber has arrived, and gone through the opening we have found, and says he can’t get from that unit to our unit, and with the list we find out that there is a way into the crawl space in the unit right next door to ours, so we have to wake up our neighbors at 1030 at night because they have to work the next day and they let the plumber in so he can crawl into the space.

Our next door neighbors are nice and polite and we wait till the plumber comes out of the ceiling and says he has indeed found a leak and that it will take about two hours to repair, which he can do right now at 1030 at night or come back in the morning.  And what should he do.  And for some reason everybody is looking at me maybe because I am the oldest and clearly the most pissed off—should we wait and leave people without hot water when they get up in the morning to take their damn showers—or should we go ahead and just do it.  So I ask the young lady who lives next door what she thinks since they are the ones who are going to be most disturbed as the plumber goes in and out of their unit and crawls into the roof, and she says do it now because that would be best for everybody, and I say sure OK.

So the plumber goes to work at 135 dollars an hour at about 11 at night.  Now usually I am in bed and at least trying to get to sleep by 11 at night.  But that is clearly not going to happen because I am increasingly fit to be tied as I see more and more clearly that the way things are going in all likelihood they are going to have to go in, once the plumbing repair is done, the attic, take out the ruined insulation and probably have to knock out the sheet rock in the roof of my new little office closet and replace it and this will require I take out all the stuff I have put in and will take forever with people coming and going—and lord knows, how the hell long getting the repercussions of this damn leak taken care of…

 Because additionally, it has become crystal clear by this point that the carpet of the little pantry closet we have downstairs has been completely saturated with water from the leak, which is coming down through the walls and that too will have to be pulled out and replaced.  And I am fit to be tied thinking about that because we had to go through that last summer when water from the water heaters saturated the wall of that closet and all the sheet rock had to taken out because of mold growth and we were stuck for a week with a damn demolding machine howling away in the closet generating heat and noise and that just went on for damn ever—with people coming and going to take out the sheetrock and put in new and recarpet the floor.

So maybe it’s 11 and we are sitting next door with our neighbor and Carol mentions that her mother just died—which the neighbor didn’t know—and she just starts laughing, which is not as impolite as it sounds because Carol has told our tale of woe about all the deaths and stuff that is going on with us.  And she says she is sorry but she doesn’t know what else to do when she thinks of all the crap that has been raining down on Carol and me lately.  And I say, go for it, because it certainly is damn funny in some way.  I mean, I am not laughing but I can see how it might appear funny and is a sign I guess of the weird state I am in because I really am not offended when somebody starts laughing when a person says my mother just died.

And maybe if I were not fit to be tied I would be laughing too because really it is a damn howler.

When I finally get out of the doctor’s and back to my car, a meter person is ticketing the car right behind mine, and mine would have been next since it had that white chalk mark on the tire, but I get in my car and drive off with a prescription for a sleep disorder study, another to get my cpap machine recalibrated and with an elongated uvula.  Of course I had that before I went to the doctor but didn’t really know it.

I am not sure about the surgery thing on my uvula.  As far as I am concerned hospitals are death traps.  But this would be out-patient.   And as for the uvula itself, well, I don’t know.  What the hell is it good for?  Well, we use it speaking; people who are born with no uvula have an unpronounceable condition and can’t say certain words and speak through their noses.  So the uvula plays a role in vocalization.  What if I got my uvula chopped and came out talking like Minnie Mouse.

But I don’t have to think about that till have the new sleep disorder study.  Then we will see.  In the meantime I have a prescription to get my cpap machine recalibrated to a lower level; maybe with less air pressure from the machine I won’t breathe in so much air.  So when I get back to the condo I call the place that recalibrates the cpap machine.  They are an outfit that contracts out to my HMO and are located clear down in Oxnard.

I get this person on the phone and ask when they can send somebody up to recalibrate the machine and she says, oh, we don’t do that.  You have to bring the machine in.  This means I have to drive 40 minutes down to Oxnard and 40 minutes back, and while the traffic to Oxnard is not full on LA Traffic, I would still give it a 6.5 on my scale of terrible traffic with 10 being the 405 go home traffic.

So I start getting real pissed off at this receptionist person who sounds like she is about 13 years old and doesn’t know shit from shinola.  But I am polite and say OK and just hang up.  I mean we have been through this before—about having to drive 40 minutes there and 40 minutes back—and Carol called the HMO and they got pissed and called the cpap outfit and, boy, did they change their tune real quick. They are supposed to drive up to SB but they don’t tell people that.

I am boiling because it looks as if we are going to have to go through all that crap again.  Be damned if I am going to drive down to Oxnard to have some idiot person put two fingers on two buttons on the cpap machine and in about a minute recalibrate the cpap machine.  I mean any idiot can recalibrate the machine, but there is a method to it having to do with plugging and unplugging the cord to the machine that I don’t know how to do but which I observed when the tech a while back recalibrated the machine for me.  So to get the damn thing recalibrated you have to have a doctor’s prescription and then you have to drive 40 minutes to Oxnard to have a person push down on two buttons because they don’t want you to know how to do it or the doctor would not be able to write a prescription.

So I hit the web and in about 10 minutes I pull up the official manual for my particular machine that is for the reading pleasure of the creeps in control because it tells you how to recalibrate the machine (the directions are pretty clear) and in the margin in caps and bold it says something like:  Don’t let the patients know how to do this so they won’t “tamper” with the machine.

So following the directions, I push the two buttons with my own two fingers and get the menu to recalibrate and drop the number to six ALL BY MYSELF.

A good half hour to 45 minutes late, the pulmonary doctor who is going to look into why I am breathing in air finally comes through the door.  He is about my age I guess.  A little younger and recently arrived in SB from Texas about two years ago.  He is a new doctor for me because, as I said, my previous pulmonary guy died on me in his sleep in his apartment, alone, because his faithful dog had died not long before he did.

Anyway this guy is OK and I do believe spends about 30 minutes, maybe a few more, actually talking with me and getting a fix on my condition—which is pretty amazing.  I mean I am not used to the red carpet treatment, doctorwise.  And finally he says something like all that weight loss may be the cause of the problem and maybe I don’t even need a sleep apnea machine anymore.  So he says he will prescribe another sleep study thing at the sleep disorder clinic for me.

Then he decides to check me out physically I mean, which I don’t like, and for which I have to take off my shirt.  So he does the chest tapping thing and the chest listening thing with the stethoscope and then he says open wide and looks in my mouth and says something like Sweet Jesus or Eureka and has to stifle a laugh because he says, “You have one enormous uvula!”  He even calls Carol over and says take a look at this, and she looks in and says, “My God.  You have one enormous uvula.”  I mean I have been living with this woman for nearly 30 years and she has never noticed my enormous uvula before.

Of course, I have never taken a good look at her uvula either; so the pot shouldn’t call the kettle black

But then I go to the mirror and look in my mouth and I have to say—I hadn’t noticed either—that I have one enormous uvula.  It starts out normal looking enough at the base—a bit wide, I guess—but then it just keeps going and going and disappears clean out of sight behind my tongue.  Twist and turn as I might looking into the mirror I can’t see the end of it.

I tell you I feel a bit weird looking at the damn thing.  I don’t know if I was born with it—if it’s genetics or something—or if maybe I stretched it out somehow.  But of all the weird things a person might have to be weird about: like huge hands to play the guitar with or huge ears or other huge things—I don’t really appreciate or understand why I should have a weird uvula.  I guess there is no rhyme or reason to it.

Now a weird or elongated uvula can be and frequently is one of the causes of sleep apnea because if you are a back sleeper the damn thing can easily flop back and block the airhole, so while he said we would wait for the result of the sleep study, there’s a strong chance the doctor will recommend that I get my uvula chopped in about half.  This is a very minor procedure, he says, out patient with a local.  I could be in and out with a shortened uvula in about 30 minutes.

In the meantime, while we wait for the study, he gave me a prescription to get the calibration on my sleep apnea machine reduced to help fight off the gas from breathing in too much air.

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Ellwood in the evening with a tiny sliver of a moon. 

Back to the pursuit of a good night’s sleep.  Carol is doing well,

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So it’s about 900 and the open slot to see the pulmonary guy for my problem breathing in air and burping and farting and to get a prescription for a new autocpap machine is at 10.  I am running a bit behind because the guy says for me to come in 15 minutes early to do the paperwork.  Being the hyper punctual guy I am I get in the car and bomb down the freeway only to find the exit for the doctor is closed for repair and the sign that told me that was located just past the last turn I could take before the closed street.  So I drive by the closed street and go to the next turn off and turn round to get back on the freeway to get to the street and what do you know, but it’s closed too. And then I can’t find a spot in the parking lot, but I do find one on the street, and finally get there at 5 till 10 to do the paperwork.

And of course, I am such an idiot, I am still sitting on my ass there in the waiting room at 1020 when Carol, who is driving through town on the way to LA to attend a convention, comes in to sit and wait with me.  Now, I want to make it perfectly clear.  I am not some big baby who needs his wife to come with him to the doctor.  Sure doctors make me like incredibly anxious and my blood pressure is always elevated consequently.

When years ago Carol first started asking me if I wanted her to go to the doctor with me I would resolutely say no and I would go ALL BY MYSELF.  But then after the doctor visit she would want to know what the doctor had said and half the time I couldn’t remember what he or she said exactly and I would forget to ask some question she suggested I make sure to ask, or I would just be pissed off and not want to talk about it all.  So she stopped asking if I wanted her to come with me and asked instead if she could come with me because that was the only way she was going to get an accurate view of what the doctor said and make sure I asked the questions that needed to be asked.

So I said, OK, she could come along since it seemed she didn’t seem to think I was a Big Baby but simply wanted to come along for efficiency of communication and accuracy of report.  And now I like to have her come along with me if she can because that gives me somebody to talk to while I wait in the big waiting room and later in the little waiting room with that table thing you lie on.  So I hope I have made it clear that I am not a Big Baby or anything like that…just terribly anxious and scared to death of doctors.

Especially pulmonary doctors, because each time I see one of those I get to thinking they will look down my throat or something and say my but that’s a mighty fine cancer you have growing there from those 40 years of smoking that you have so irresponsibly done.  So not only am I scared about the idea they may find cancer but I have to deal with the immense guilt I feel—every damn day—at the fact that I have smoked for forty years and have in all likelihood, as a consequences, consigned to myself to an early grave preceded by the slow torture of emphysema because I am a hyper rational guy and actually believe what the doctors say about smoking killing a person.

So given all the inward turmoil I go through just to get to a pulmonary doctor, I must have been feeling pretty fed up with all the burping and farting to agree so readily to zoom down there to fill in for the cancellation.

I got only 4.5 hours sleep Tuesday night not only because I couldn’t get to sleep what with all the burping and farting from breathing in air from my sleep apnea mask but also because my brain has taken it into its head, for about a year now, that I am supposed to wake up at 5 am.  And by 5 am, that’s what I mean.  I will wake, look at the clock and it will not be 459 or 501; no, it will be exactly 5.  How my brain should know while I am completely unconscious that it should be 5 I don’t know.  But it does, right down to the second, apparently.

So Wednesday morning found me with a cup of coffee at about 520, with it being completely dark outside, sitting in front of the computer, burping and farting, while looking around the web for some way I might relieve myself of the same.  I found that on sleep apnea bulletin boards the topic of breathing in air came up quite a bit, though people tended not to speak of farting but of  “breaking wind” or as suffering “wind” as a result of breathing in air.  Honestly I don’t know what produces such prudery; frankly I think calling farts “wind” is an insult to wind, which usually, at least does not stink.

But while there was much talk of wind, I could find no solution to it.  I found talk of elevating the upper body, and of not eating three hours before you start breathing in that sleep apnea air, and also of loading up on Gas-x and stuff like that.  These seemed to me desperation measures, rather ad hoc with more hope behind them than any solid grasp of the situation.  One clear thing did emerge though more people seemed to suffer this air inhalation problem if the machine that blows the air into the mask was set at a high calibration.

Yes, these machines are calibrated, based on a sleep apnea study, to the needs of the individual sufferer.  While you are sleeping, during the sleep study, you are monitored by any manner of wires stuck to many parts of your body, and when you show signs of sleep apnea the techs who stay up all night doing this stuff monkey around with the calibration of the machine to see how much “wind” the person needs to make the sleep apnea episode go away.  Some people, I was amazed to see have their machines calibrated to 25 and above.  To me that is unimaginable and would be the same as having a small hurricane blowing in your face all night long.  No wonder these people have “wind.”  How they get through a night I can’t imagine.

My machine which sits atop a desk next to my bed was originally calibrated to a mere 8. Later, without a doctor’s prescription, a tech who knew how to do it, calibrated my machine up to 10.  But honestly, I didn’t think the calibration was too high. Though perhaps my machine was defective.  How the hell would I know?  Then I saw they had come up with a whole other line of cpap air blowing machines called autocpap machines.  These have little computers in them that monitor your in and out breathing as you sleep and actually auto adjust to your “wind” needs depending upon whether you are having sleep apnea episodes (these it can detect because no air comes out of a person at all, at least from the mouth and nostrils while an episode is taking place.)

I decided that I wanted one of those machines; they cost over 500 dollars, but what the hell.  The only problem was to get one I actually, if you can believe it, needed a prescription from a doctors.

These doctors have gone ape-shit crazy with their prescription pads; but of course their livelihood depends on those little pads.  If they didn’t have those, people wouldn’t go to see them at all expect for real important stuff like open gaping wounds or heart attack.  Otherwise doctors are a pretty useless bunch. So they exercise as much as possible the tyranny of the prescription pad.

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Above: Ellwood in a very light rain plus snowy egret on seventh hole.