Based upon the fact that my latest breathing scores were lower than the Giants’ winning percentage versus the Padres this year, the brain trust here at Team ALS Boy decided to bite the proverbial bullet and get me hooked up to a BiPAP machine. Just a little bit at first, so I could get used to it, in the event that I would have to depend on it, you know, to breathe and stuff.
Contrary to what you may be inferring from the previous sentence, I was all-in on the respirator as well. I am willing to try just about anything to maximize my time on this big, blue spinning ball that we call Earth.
So today was the day that we were supposed to get a visit from a mobile Respiratory Therapist in order to start me down the path to assisted breathing. They sent R-Lean The RT instead.
Now I have nothing against this kind and pleasant woman per se, but the appointment didn’t go necessarily as planned. Without going into a whole lot of detail, let’s just say that we found out a crapload more about her new roommate’s liver issues, her own injured right arm, and the sound of her Blackberry’s ringtone than we did about the functions of the BiPAP.
Once the mask was attached to my face via my rather prominent nasal cavity, then the good times really started to roll. I couldn’t get into the rhythm of the forced breaths and to paraphrase the IAMS, I was drooling more than a St Bernard. Needless to say, the appointment was a bust and she exited the house with these following words:
“When you receive an evaluation card in the mail, remember that we strive for five.”
And then she left.