Adventure takes on new meaning when you're 90.
The obstacle course of a sleep study required all the physical and mental dexterity my dad, his caregiver Anthony, and I, could muster.
It was already past my bedtime when we headed out, loaded with extra pillows and blankets, pajamas, Tums, plastic urinal, condom catheter, mattress pads, wipes, adult diapers, c-Pap mask, Kleenex box, completed paperwork, and sliding board.
The first step went smoothly as my dad transferred almost effortlessly into the passenger side of my rental Nissan. Anthony set him up with the sliding board and offered more guidance than hands-on help. My spirits were buoyed.
We arrived at the sleep center early and Anthony inserted the board under my dad's legs for transfer back to the wheelchair. This time, however, his 237 lbs began to fall between chair and car as the sliding board slipped to the ground. We quickly directed him back onto the seat. With a concerted effort, Anthony and I managed to direct him into the wheelchair; the exertion left my dad out of breath.
Once masked and up the ramp with all the luggage, we were admitted and led to a room with double bed and recliner. The recliner was Plan B in case my dad could not get comfortable in the bed. Of course, we had forgotten to check on two essential logistics during the previous day's call with the sleep doctor.
It turned out the bed was so much higher than his wheelchair he would never be able to get in, and the recliner had an armrest that would prevent his transferring into it. For about the fifth (or sixth or tenth) time that evening my father said, "I guess we'll have to go home."
I was determined we would not go home. Too much was riding on completing the study - namely his health insurer's requirement that he get a prescription for the a new bi-Pap machine to keep his oxygen saturation above 88% and prevent his heart from failing, the issues that sent him to ICU two weeks ago.
The sleep technician, working alone, was rattled by the challenges, but miraculously found a room with a lower bed which - despite my dad's insistence that we would have to go home - Anthony assured us was accessible.
Before pulling out the sliding board to get him into bed there was a 45-minute set up during which colored wires were attached to calves, chest, face and head - an EEG, EKG, snore and sleep monitoring amalgam - all of which were plugged into a little black box and hung around his neck. Then he could get in bed.
"I'll never sleep," my dad threatened as he nodded off in the chair amid the wires and tubes going into his nose. Yet sleep he did, at least enough to prove he still has sleep apnea and inform the technician what sleep machine and settings are right for him.
I got my own room that night and about 5 hours of sleep. Poor Anthony slept on a cot in my dad's room and was woken up each time the technician entered to change mask and settings, and to help my dad with the urinal and extra blankets.
Going home at 6am was another adventure. Exiting the car proved no less difficult, in no small part I'm sure because of our delirious state of exhaustion. But we made it, and bonded a little more from the teamwork required to ensure my dad persevered with dignity.
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