ONE OF THOSE DAYS

Dear Harry,

        There are times when a day just seems--forgive the expression--fucked-up from the start. You know what I mean. The term seems… apt for today.

        Here's the story. (You can laugh if you feel like it!)

         I was awakened in the middle of the night—3:00, 3:30, somewhere around there—by the malfunctioning of the CPAP machine I use not only to help myself sleep, because I have long suffered from sleep apnea, but also Ellie, because my sleeping disorder causes a dreadful snore that would otherwise keep her awake. I have been using this machine for probably twenty years now. I have never liked the mask I need to wear at night, but it’s a small price to pay for a good night’s sleep—for both of us.

            So around 3:00 or 3:30 the machine started to generate a loud hissing sound, so loud that it woke me and kept me from going back to sleep. It was accompanied by an uncomfortable downdraft that felt, well, not right. A preliminary exploration helped me to determine that the seal of the “cushion” that protects my face from the hard plastic frame was broken, and air was leaking out where it was not supposed to.

            I spent a while—too long, given what I correctly anticipated would be the futility of the attempt—trying to compensate for the flaw with a strategic placement of my head. No luck. The noise persisted, the air continued to leak. So I finally gave in. Removed the mask and tried to get back to sleep.

            Alas, I was continually awakened even as I started to drop off, by the sound of my own snores. I hated the thought of that near-certainty, that they would awaken Ellie too. So I crept out of bed and took myself to the small bed in the spare room, the one where little Luka sleeps when he overnights with us. I piled blankets over me, because it was cold in there. And tossed and turned…

            I must have finally fallen asleep, because I woke at 7:00—and was relieved to find Ellie still sleeping comfortably in our bed.

             That was the start.

            Next thing, once the morning tea was made, I got online to the CPAP shop to order a new mask. There seem to be hundreds of different makes and models sort through, and I was glad to finally find what I was looking for: the clone to the one that had broken during the night. It was advertised at $89.99. It seemed like a good deal, given the cost of these things, so I ordered an extra one for future use. I added both to my cart, and ordered a spare cushion, a new strap as a replacement in case it should be needed, a new 6’ air hose since mine is getting old. And clicked the order button.

            Well, the whole order should have come to a couple of hundred dollars. I moved ahead to check-out and was dismayed to discovered that there was now only one mask in my cart—everything else had disappeared—and that instead of the advertised $89.99 I was to pay $247 and some odd cents for just the one mask.

            I tried clicking on the invitation for a “chat” with an agent and waited an inordinate amount of time before giving up on that option. I tried calling the number given on the website. Busy signal. Over and over. I found a new number and tried calling that, only to reach one of those endless menus that finally direct you back to where you started. 

            So it went. I did finally, after two hours of frustration, manage to place an order with a sane charge attached. But as you can imagine I was by this time in no mood to get back to the morning’s writing I had planned. I started, instead, on my half hour’s exercise routine with weights and expandable bands and, hardly had I started, when Jake the dog rushed by, very pleased with himself and in evident excitement, leaving a trail of toilet paper all the way from the bathroom to the foot of the stairs. He dropped the end he had grabbed only when I yelled at him.

            Okay. Managed my half hour’s workout. Came upstairs. Found Jake, now on the dining room table with his nose buried in a bag of walnuts that had been left there from breakfast. Fortunately, he had not read the bag of brown sugar, but he surely would have liked to. More yelling. I called our good neighbor where Jake’s friends live—two dogs of the same breed and about the same ago—to ask if Jake could come over to play. And walked him over there.

            Phew! I’m taking advantage of a moment of peace to write these words. Who knows what could happen next. It is, as they say, one of those days. Or, as I say, fucked up from the start.

            Excuse the expression! You know what I mean.

With love, Peter