Waiting... for My CPAP
The NHS is a blessing. I keep reminding myself of this as the weeks tick into months, as I have been doing for various reasons throughout my entire life. It’s odd now, after so many years of knowing I would need a CPAP machine one day, to know I need it now and have to wait to start using it.
(I’ll find out later that I had no reason to blame the NHS for the delay too, but during the wait I can’t help but blame the system like I’m in some sort of endless time loop.)
The issue is, the appointments so far have happened so quickly now having to wait so long between them seems wrong.
When the doctor tells me they’re giving me a CPAP machine, he says a physio will be in touch about it, and I don’t even think to ask about a timeline. I start doing research and very quickly realise there are so many options I should just wait until I can talk to a professional.
Two weeks pass before I snap. Two weeks and a day, to be precise.
I have to go back via my GP because of course I don’t have any contact details for the correct department. Throughout all the letters I’ve been sent regarding sleep studies and consultancy calls, I have at least three different phone numbers and no idea which one would be best to use. The internet is no help, either. Which makes perfect sense - they don’t want the direct number for every department of every hospital available for just anyone to find.
My GP passes the query on. Or maybe they were already going to call me with an update? I’m unsure of the actual order - but there’s a voicemail on my phone saying it’ll be 2-3 weeks, and giving me a phone number and an email address as a direct contact.
I listen to the voicemail seven times in a row. I still can’t work out one of the letters in the email.
It’s OK, though - I have a timeline to work with now and I can ignore the issue for at least another three weeks.
The voicemail says the delay is due to a shortage in machines. My flatmate pales when I tell her, commenting, “Well, that’s morbid as fuck.”
I hadn’t even considered availability may be in some way related to mortality until this moment, and try not to think much more about it afterwards either.
The three weeks takes us right up to Black Friday. Not a day of notability for most people, but I’ve worked in retail - both in-store and online - for over a decade so it’s always a day burned into my mind. It’s stressful, but it allows me to not dwell on the whole CPAP situation.
I mean, it doesn’t, but I tell myself I’m distracted.
I compose an email on the three week mark, and then re-listen to the voicemail again to try and work out where the fuck I’m sending it to. I really don’t want to call anyone if I can help it - and I’ve got most of the email address. I'm just missing one letter.
E sounds like C sounds like T sounds like V and it turns into a situation where I’m just like, “OK, which one of those sounding letters makes a word that actually makes sense in context?”
I figure, if I’m wrong, I’ll get a bounceback email and then I’ll just try another one.
I get it right first time.
There’s an exchange between myself and one of the Therapy Support Workers. All I want is a rough time frame - it’s been three weeks and I only have two more in the city until I’m away for the holidays, and I just don’t want my time to come when I’m not even around.
I’m told I’m currently 29th in the list, and the wait time is now 6-8 weeks. I am assured they’ll make a note of when I won’t be in London. I am also told the machine shortage is due to the parts shortage happening globally - the same issue most tech companies have been having throughout 2021. I hadn’t even considered that might have been the issue until that point.
It’s a relief, at least. To know it’s a shipment thing. I’m used to those in my line of work.
When the call does come, in January, everything happens as quickly as I was expecting it to.
Within a week I’m sat at the hospital with a physiotherapist, talking me through every part of the machine.
She shows me how to put the mask on, and how to operate the machine. She tells me how to clean it. She gives me a stack of filters, which need to be changed every six months. She assures me she’s always at the end of an email if I need her.
I am endlessly delighted by the easy-to-carry case everything comes in. I knew it would be portable to a degree, but it’s compact and has a decent shoulder strap and I’m a bit obsessed with it.
When she asks if I have any questions I fumble through my phone.
“I made some notes, but I think you’ve already answered most of them.” I say, as I fail to unlock it with either my face or my fingerprint and resort to typing in my passcode. Which I then get wrong the first two times I try.
She smiles at me. Nods approvingly. And, honestly, she’s answered all of them already except one - even down to the irrelevant-for-now international travelling questions.
“How robust is it?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow as she answers, “Fairly.”
“So, like, if I knock it off my bedside table?” I grimace a little, but it’s a likely situation and I don’t want to panic when it inevitably hits my bedroom floor with a thud in the middle of the night, “Like, unintentionally, obviously. In my sleep.”
“They’re pretty hard to break,” she assures me, “But falls happen. In fact, a lot of people actually keep them on the floor by their bed for that exact reason. It’ll survive. I wouldn’t intentionally push it to the ground or anything though.”
We share a grin. I wonder if she also has the same mental image I do right now, of me purposefully yeeting my CPAP off my balcony.
“You’ll be fine.”
If we were in different times, I think I’d ask her for a hug.
