I can't stop thinking about Hannibal Lecter. And my CPAP.

My CPAP marks my official departure from being remotely cool. Over. Finished.

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It’s over.

My youth is gone.

It’s not the turning of the clock, a number, a birthday or some kid yelling from an open window, “Hey Grandpa!” It’s the CPAP.

I’ve hated birthdays for 30 years.

It’s not that I haven’t been getting the “oh, I thought you were in your forties; you look so much younger” comments as much; it’s not that when I give my birthday at the pharmacy counter, the Asian guy does not flinch, though some fake shock would be nice.

I always knew that the “Oh, I thought you were younger” comments were more a cultural ritual than a truth.

Strange how we don’t hear a lot of “I thought you were older, you’ve aged badly, did you do meth for a few years, live in a tanning bed, or never use skin cream?” Or, “For the love of all that is holy, get some sleep.” I’m not sure why nobody says this; nobody has a problem telling me, “I look tired, or are you sick?” Maybe to them, it’s framed in sympathy; to me, it’s always, “Hey, you look like shit.”

No, I am not tired or ill. This is my look. This is how God made me and the cumulative effect of ageing on my cells. Back off.

As far as the “You look younger” comments. Why don’t we just roll back everybody’s age ten years and ban the comments? Make “you look younger” comments punishable by law.

Like in Russia when you start talking about that war, or in Pakistan when someone says, “He,y I heard that he was starting his fire with Korans.”

But the reason my youth is gone is my CPAP machine.

I knew that my health was on the decline when I went to try a Ketamine infusion, a treatment that is designed to deal with persistent depression.

It was in the middle of COVID, and not a good trip. The nurses-no, it wasn’t in a back alley, it was legal-were masked up with full body suits and the wet dream of a Covid-19 hypochondriac.

I hadn’t expected this. There I am, stoned out of my head on Ketamine, and in comes a nurse wearing the whole body suit; I freak out and swear to God that there has been an invasion and the earth is crawling with unattractive yellow monsters who aren’t saying anything.

I was terrified, and then a screaming alarm went off in my ear. I had no idea; the Teletubby interplanetary invader deals with it, but 12 seconds later, the screaming howl filled the room. Still clueless, a bit panicked, what was happening, but the Teletubby creature shut it off again, leaving me alone to have Ketamine infused pornographic imaginary examination fantasies that seemed reasonable at the time.

I won’t tell you what caverns were explored, but after I came down, I was told that I had practically broken the blood pressure machine and might want to get that checked out.

The depression didn’t change; they said it was like a hard reboot of my brain, but it was more a reboot of my wallet, and the reboot left it $1000 lighter.

So then I became a blood pressure pill man; my blood pressure, especially when my dad was told he had constipation, and a day later they said lymphoma; at that point, my BP was hitting 180/120, and Mr Google said that if it kept up like that, I had less than a year to live. Pills helped, grief marched through me; my BP came down, and exercise helped. Groove was coming back. A hair transplant would help out.

A year later, some doctors suggested a sleep test. I had seen CPAP machines; I thought they made people look like Hannibal Lecter.

A mask on your face; I swore I would never do that. So I went to the sleep lab and took enough sleeping pills to take down a bear and two shots of tequila. I was assured I would sleep like a baby, even though wires, bands, and electrodes were attached to my body. I didn’t sleep at all.

The test results were lost, but fortunately, they were found. I had a sleep apnea score of 37, which was off the charts bad, mini sleep interruptions, something in my throat or nose, and some mechanical failing I had explained to me, but didn’t try to understand because I was thinking about Hannibal Lecter.

If I didn’t get a CPAP machine, if I didn’t go full Hannibal Lecter, I would increase my likelihood of a stroke or heart attack. The respirologist was lovely and upbeat, but still, she wouldn’t put up with my Hannibal Lecter male insecurity moaning.

I’d rather skip the Lecter mask and take my chances. But I didn’t want to die at 65 and have my kids giving a eulogy with a theme of how he died twenty years too early because he was too proud to sleep with a hose coming off his face like an elephant trunk.

I’ve started wearing it. If you are wearing a CPAP mask, you have the sexual appeal of the man you see coughing and scratching as he emerges from a clinic for people with bad STDs; the one clutching multiple drug scripts in his hands.

Or sexually, I had all the value of a crypto stock that a drunk rapper invented and called TubbyCrypto. He invented it when he was high and dreamed that a yellow Teletubby told him how to get rich. It was not a good investment.

However, about a year or two ago, I visited Turkey. I underwent their medieval hair replacement treatment, which went well. With workouts, I was getting my groove back, and now my new hair is miffed at the indignity of sleeping with a hose coming out of my face that keeps screaming at me that my seal sucks.

And it’s a $1400 machine, but my wife says I sound like an asthmatic walrus, especially when the seal is bad. Sometimes, it feels like someone blows cold air up my nose, and I have to sleep on my back like I was auditioning coffins.

But it’s good in the long run. I am old. The CPAP has turned me into one of those cranky old people who rattle on about their infirmities; I guess this rules out going to bed drunk; I’d end up with a CPAP mask on the back of my head.

But letting go brings relief.

I am not young, so I may wear ball caps, hoodies, sweatshirts, and go to the gym. But the former is because I am lazy, and the latter is because I want to be able to open pickle jars and not lose all my muscle tone. I can still do more pull-ups than most of the young ones. But I look like crap. I’m 60.

At least 61 won’t be traumatic. Thanks, CPAP, for killing my youth.

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