I once thought using a vent to sleep would render me unsexy. It felt like a form of birth control that might make one back away away from the bed rather than snuggle up with a robo-breather. It didn’t help that the accompanying mask slipped overhead and settling on the nose looked similar to scuba gear. Not a bad thing if you’re going deep sea diving but maybe not exactly a turn on before drifting off into dreamscape.
Due to the progression of a congenital neuromuscular disability, I began having difficulty expelling carbon dioxide attributed to a weakened diaphragm, that large muscle aiding lungs in proper respiration. Prior to using vent, I would wake with a splitting headache for the first half hour- that’s*if* I could sleep for any length of time. Puzzled, I wondered if perhaps it was my lumpy mattress, too much msg, or anxiety that was keeping me from a peaceful night’s sleep. Daytime drowsiness was a constant companion and siphoned my ability to concentrate and carry on a conversation beyond short answers.
It wasn’t until I was given a blood gas test and hospitalized after elevated levels of CO2 surfaced that I was sent home with respiratory help. And thus began my partnership over the last decade with an assisted breathing device. An arranged marriage of sorts. A mechanical intervention. Thank gawd for technology. And health insurance.
I also never fancied myself snapping a pic fashioned with said accountrement all aglow coupled with a curly coif. Turns out breathing easy and rising refreshed from a full night’s sleep sans migraine can be quite the aphrodisiac. Messy tresses and all. Oh the spice of time and self-evaluation emanating off the skin. *sniffs, exhales, clicks*