In 2010, when I was 18, a sleep study confirmed what kids at sleepovers and camp, and my freshman-year dorm mate who slept with headphones blaring heavy metal, already knew: I snored, and very loudly.
The breathing passages in my nose, throat and mouth weren’t staying open, forcing my brain to wake up from deep sleep and open my airways. Over 30 times an hour. I awoke each morning exhausted.
At the time, I thought it was normal to feel terrible every morning.
“He’s a typical teenager,” said my mom when I slept in until the evening on weekends. My dad’s solution was pouring water on me so I could “seize the day!” I was a regular night owl who hated mornings. I never felt fully awake until the afternoon.
But my physician suggested I get tested for sleep apnea since my levels of sleepiness were off the charts, even for a teen. And he warned me that the health effects of sleep apnea over time could be bad: stroke, heart problems, diabetes, and in some cases, even a shortened life span.
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A specialist looked at my test and said I needed a continuous positive airway pressure machine, a clunky contraption that sits beside your bed and straps on your face at night, providing a little constant air pressure that basically keeps your airways open as you sleep.
No way was I going to do that. Sleep apnea seemed like a problem for old people — most CPAP users start at age 55 — and I was living in a college dorm and dating. If I ever brought somebody back to my college dorm room, they’d see the dorky machine on my nightstand and any possibility of romance would end. Besides, I didn’t think snoring was a big deal — I didn’t hear it.
Instead, I tried various over-the-counter remedies — pills, mouthguards, nasal strips that keep your nostrils open and herbal teas. Everything helped a little, but nothing was reliable or complete. And I was tired.
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The summer before sophomore year at college, I asked my dentist during a teeth-cleaning appointment if he’d make me a custom mouthguard for my snoring. Gently, my gray-haired dentist said, “Just get a CPAP.”
I told him I couldn’t get past the idea that it’d be embarrassing if somebody spent the night with me and my CPAP.
“Whomever you bring back will be glad you are quietly getting a good night sleep,” he responded.
His point resonated, so I got a CPAP.
I was 20 when I first plugged it in. The device looked like a futuristic box with knobs, buttons and a tiny screen. It whooshed when on, like a white-noise machine on low volume. Mine had a built-in humidifier pushing air out a plastic ribbed tube and into a rubber mask strapped on my head like a face-hugger alien. The machine gently pushed air into my mouth and nose, breathing with me as if kissing playfully.
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That first night I tried it, I was uncomfortable and cranky.
But that morning — despite my resistance — I woke up amazingly rested. Ready-to-be-awake rested. Ready-for-anything rested.
Share this articleShareI was a convert. At first, I was embarrassed about my CPAP machine. My roommate teased me about my Darth Vader mask. On Saturday nights, before going out, I’d place the CPAP machine in my closet. But the high-quality sleep I was getting made me take it out before bed.
Once, when someone asked to stay the night I was forced to explain, “Oh I snore, it’s impossible to sleep next to me!” She stayed the night and once she was asleep, I awkwardly attached my CPAP mask to my face. Ultimately, I got over being embarrassed because I wanted a good night sleep.
And the dentist was right, the date didn’t mind it at all.
Today at 30, my fiancee loves my CPAP more than I do. She has no patience for my snoring — she’ll remind me if I start dozing without it to “put on the machine.”
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Over the past decade, I’ve appreciated the relief but detested the air-pushing robot. It’s annoying. Cleaning and attaching it adds another chore to my nightly routine. It’s a glaring symbol of my poor health. I can’t sleep on my stomach. Despite all the benefits, I’ve maintained an on-again, off-again relationship with my CPAP.
But each time I stop using it, I curse my inability to get restful sleep. I wake up groggy as if with a head cold. I have to pry my eyes open like I’m jet-lagged in a new time zone. When I was a teen, I didn’t realize there was more to life than being tired. Now I know.
Obstructive sleep apnea makes you wake up feeling like you haven’t slept a wink. You never enter restful rapid eye movement sleep, since you have spent the night basically holding your breath. You wake up feeling hung over and can literally keep hitting snooze past noon.
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My CPAP fixed all that. So, in my early 20s, looking down the barrel of a lifetime relying on a CPAP, I decided to change my attitude and learn to love my anti-snoring device. Now I take it with me whenever I travel. One summer after college, when I was leading canoe trips, I even had a solar battery-powered CPAP.
My overall health has improved immensely — physically, mentally and emotionally. I’m more focused, organized, positive and energized.
Recently, at a bachelor party ski weekend, I was hanging with the guys I used to sleep over with in high school. My friends joked about who’d get stuck rooming with me since my snoring was legendary. But the next morning, nobody was laughing. Instead, they were impressed by my CPAP machine and my ability to silently rest.
How to get used to wearing a mask
The hardest part of being a new CPAP user is getting used to it. According to the National Library of Medicine, about half of the people prescribed a continuous positive airway pressure machine abandon it within a year. Discomfort and inconvenience are the main reasons.
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My trick: Practice wearing the mask while awake. Wear it while relaxing in bed, reading, watching TV or surfing the internet. Create a comfy association where the mask no longer becomes an impediment to dozing off.
Most crucial to falling in love with a CPAP is finding the correct mask. This can take some trial and error. Each one comes with multiple sizing options. The trick for me was to find the right style mask. At first, I wore a big, chunky mask that covered my mouth and nose and had a tube that went straight out like an elephant trunk. It was especially claustrophobic. And I talked like Darth Vader.
Now I use a mask that fits under my nose, and the hose attaches at the top of my cranium. It’s less oppressive, easier to sleep with, and before I snooze, I can talk and drink sips of water.
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And one other thing is key: Get the right pillow. Despite years of practice, I still occasionally wake up constricted by the CPAP hose. I go with a low but firm pillow so that I don’t twist too much. Side sleepers should fill the crook of their neck. And if you really need to sleep on your stomach, there are specialty pillows available that work with a CPAP mask and hose.
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