The CPAP Chronicles: How I Slept Like a Dead Man and Still Felt Like Crap

Yesterday, I woke up at 2:00 p.m.

Yeah. Two in the afternoon. Not after some wild night out or a spontaneous trip to Vegas. Just… 2 p.m., regular Thursday, no fanfare, just me and a wave of shame rolling in like, “Well well well, look who decided to join the living.”

My first thought? I’m a lazy degenerate. A sentient couch cushion. But then I checked my shiny new sleep tracker and, surprise, it said I had the best sleep I’ve had in ages. Like, gold star sleep. Peak performance. If it had arms, it would’ve high-fived me. Which was confusing, because I still felt like I’d been hit by a tranquilizer dart.

It’s quite a contraption. (This is NOT me by the way!) Stock Photo. 😂😂

Now, here’s where things get real: I sleep with a CPAP machine. Got it about six months before I was diagnosed with cancer. And honestly, the CPAP changed everything. I had no clue how bad my sleep was before. I thought waking up exhausted was just part of adulthood or maybe a side effect of having opinions. Turns out I was basically choking on air all night and calling it “rest.”

Once I got diagnosed with sleep apnea and strapped into that beautiful beast of a machine, things started to shift. My energy improved. I could think more clearly. My moods leveled out. But the trade-off? Now I go to bed every night looking like a knockoff Darth Vader crossed with a rejected Iron Lung prototype. It hums, it hisses, it straps to your face, and sometimes it leaks just enough to blow a soft jet of air directly into your eyeball at 2 a.m.

And it’s not just “put it on and go.” You’ve got to care for it like it’s a needy houseplant. Distilled water only, or it turns into a crusty humidifier from hell. Filters have to be cleaned. The silicone mask wears out and starts losing its seal, which means you wake up thinking you’ve been slow-roasted in your own breath. Ahhh… the dry mouth that can occur. And if you don’t stay on top of all of that? Enjoy your headache, fog brain, and dreams where you’re being chased by steam and purple gremlins.

Also, I need a new sleep doctor. My last one tried to bill me $257 for something I didn’t sign off on. I don’t know what service they think I got. Maybe they charged me for breathing. Maybe I looked at the front desk too long. Who knows. All I know is that I now have so many doctors, specialists, and follow-up appointments that I’m one step away from needing a personal assistant named Rhonda just to keep it all straight.

But back to yesterday. Despite waking up at the hour when most people are prepping for dinner, I felt okay. That’s the pattern lately. I feel good one day, go all in like I’m training for a triathlon, and then collapse the next. I burn through my energy like it’s clearance Halloween candy. It’s the cycle. The trap. The “feel good, overdo it, feel awful” dance that cancer patients know all too well.

But today? Today I woke up at 6:30 a.m.

Not only did I wake up early, I put on my shoes and walked two full miles before most of the world had finished pouring their coffee. It felt great. Like I might actually be figuring things out. Like I could make routines stick and stop flipping back and forth between being a champion and a corpse.

I know tomorrow might be another crash. That’s how this works. But I also know this morning happened. That I’m still capable of surprising myself. That my body, despite everything, still has some fight left in it.

So cheers to the CPAP, even if it makes me look like a stormtrooper on disability. Cheers to the good sleep, even when it shows up uninvited. Cheers to the two-mile walks, the 2 p.m. wakeups, and the whole chaotic mess in between.

This is the ride. Cycles, weird mornings, broken sleep, and all.

But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still showing up.

And honestly? That’s the win. Cancer be damned.