Living with Sleep Apnea – My Journey

By Jeremy Smith

I’m 57 years old, and for the last ten years, I’ve slept with a machine next to my bed that keeps me alive.

That sounds dramatic, I know. But it’s also true. Without my CPAP machine, I’d still be waking up with crushing migraines, my heart would be under dangerous strain, and honestly, I might not be here at all. Sleep apnea isn’t just an inconvenience—it was slowly killing me, and I didn’t even know it.

This is my story. Not a medical guide or a list of facts, but the real, messy, sometimes embarrassing journey of discovering I had severe sleep apnea and learning to live with the treatment that saved my life.

The Years I Didn’t Know

Looking back now, the signs were everywhere. I just didn’t see them.

I’ve apparently been a loud snorer since my twenties. I say “apparently” because, well, I was asleep. You don’t hear your own snoring. But people sure let you know about it. Roommates would joke about it. Girlfriends would complain. My brother once recorded me on his phone and played it back the next morning—it sounded like a chainsaw trying to start.

I laughed it off. “I snore, so what? Lots of people snore.”

The incident that should have been a wake-up call happened in 2001. I was 32, and I’d saved up for a solo backpacking trip through Australia. The kind of adventure where you stay in hostels, meet random travelers, and survive on instant noodles and cheap beer. I was excited—except for one nagging worry.

That’s me on the right, wearing the blue t-shirt.

I knew I’d be sleeping in dorm rooms with strangers. And I knew I snored. Loudly.

So before I left on my trip, I went to the pharmacy and bought everything they had. Nasal strips—the kind that rugby players wear. A weird eucalyptus oil that you were supposed to drip on your tonsils (I have no idea if that was meant for snoring or if I just misread the label). Some herbal spray that claimed to “reduce throat vibrations.” I packed it all.

The first night in a Sydney hostel, I stuck the nasal strip across my nose, dripped the eucalyptus down my throat (which burned), and went to sleep hoping for the best.

I woke up to someone yelling.

“Hey mate, do you realize how bloody loud you snore?”

The whole room was glaring at me. One guy had his pillow over his head. Another had moved his mattress to the hallway.

I mumbled an apology, grabbed my backpack, and walked out at 6 AM to find a hotel. It cost me three nights’ worth of hostel money for a single night in a tiny room with a flickering light and a toilet that barely flushed. But at least I could snore in peace.

I should have seen a doctor then. But I didn’t. I just assumed I was one of those unlucky people with loud snoring. Annoying, but not dangerous.

When Everything Changed

Fast forward ten years. I’m in my early forties, living in Western Australia, and my life looks pretty good on paper. I’ve met an incredible woman who would eventually become my wife. I have a decent job. I’m healthy—or so I think.

But something is very, very wrong.

I start waking up with headaches. Not little ones. Crushing, debilitating migraines that make me want to lie in a dark room and not move. At first, it’s once every few weeks. Then weekly. Then multiple times a week.

The migraines follow a pattern. I’d wake up feeling like someone was squeezing my skull in a vice. My vision would blur. Nausea would hit, and sometimes I’d spend the morning vomiting. The only thing that helped was lying completely still in a pitch-black room with a cold cloth over my eyes.

A whole day. Gone. Just lying there, waiting for it to pass.

My girlfriend—now my wife—was patient at first. But after months of this, even she started to worry. How do you build a life with someone who’s knocked out by mysterious migraines several times a week? I’m honestly amazed she stayed. I’m more amazed she married me.

“You need to see someone,” she kept saying.

I kept putting it off. I told myself it was stress. Dehydration. Too much screen time. Bad posture. Anything but something serious.

But then one morning, I woke up and couldn’t get out of bed. The headache was so intense I genuinely thought I might be having a stroke. My wife called in sick for me and sat next to the bed, quietly insisting that this couldn’t keep happening.

“Promise me you’ll get tested,” she said.

I promised.

The Test That Changed Everything

I ordered a home sleep study. Back then, it wasn’t as simple as the tests are now. They mailed me this clunky device with sensors and wires. I had to strap a band around my chest, clip something to my finger, and stick these sticky pads on my face. I looked like a low-budget science fiction character.

I slept terribly that night—partly because of all the equipment, but mostly because I was nervous. What if they found something serious? What if they didn’t find anything at all, and I was just stuck with these migraines forever?

A week later, the results came back.

Severe obstructive sleep apnea. AHI of 51.

I had to Google what AHI meant. Apnea-Hypopnea Index—basically, how many times per hour you stop breathing or have significantly reduced airflow.

Normal is under 5. Mild is 5-15. Moderate is 15-30. Severe is 30+.

Mine was 51.

I stared at the report. Sixty-four times an hour, I was stopping breathing. That’s more than once per minute, all night, every night, for years.

No wonder I woke up with migraines. My brain was being starved of oxygen. My heart was working overtime trying to keep me alive. My body was in a constant state of emergency while I slept.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The loud snoring. The crushing fatigue. The migraines. Even the time in Australia—those guys in the hostel weren’t just hearing snoring. They were hearing me gasping and choking for air.

I felt a weird mix of relief and fear. Relief that there was an answer. Fear about what came next.

Meeting My New Bedtime Companion

The sleep specialist’s solution was straightforward: I needed a CPAP machine.

CPAP stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure. Basically, it’s a machine that blows air into your nose or mouth through a mask, keeping your airway open so you don’t stop breathing. Simple concept. Not exactly simple to live with.

When the machine arrived, I unpacked it like it was some kind of alien artifact. There was the machine itself—about the size of a toaster. A long tube. And the mask. That damn mask.

I held it up to my face. It covered my nose and mouth, with straps that went around my head.

“How the hell am I supposed to sleep in this?” I said out loud to no one.

That first night was rough. I lay down, strapped the mask on, and turned the machine on. Air immediately blasted into my face. It felt like sticking my head out of a car window on the highway. I yanked the mask off.

I tried again. This time I made it about thirty seconds before feeling like I was suffocating. Off came the mask.

Third try. I forced myself to keep it on. I focused on breathing slowly. In through the nose, out through the nose. The air pressure was intense, but I started to adjust. I could feel my chest rising and falling more easily. After what felt like an hour (probably ten minutes), I drifted off.

I woke up a few hours later in a panic. The mask was still on, but something felt wrong. My heart was pounding. It felt strained, like it was working too hard.

I ripped the mask off and lay there in the dark, breathing hard, wondering if this was supposed to happen.

The next morning, I called the sleep center.

“The pressure might be too high for you,” the technician said. “Come in, and we’ll adjust it.”

They lowered the pressure slightly. That night, it was better. Not comfortable, exactly, but better. I managed to sleep for longer stretches. The tornado feeling in my face was now more like a strong breeze.

By the end of the first week, something incredible happened.

I woke up without a headache.

It was the first time in months—maybe years—that I woke up feeling…normal. Not great, not energized, just normal. No crushing pain. No nausea. No need to hide in a dark room.

I nearly cried.

Ten Years Later

I’m writing this now, ten years after that first night. The CPAP machine sitting on my bedside table isn’t the same one—the motor bearings gave out after five years, and it started making this awful howling noise—but it’s the same idea.

Every night, without exception, I strap on my mask and turn on my machine. It’s as automatic as brushing my teeth. I don’t think about it anymore. I don’t resent it. It’s just what I do.

Living with a CPAP machine isn’t glamorous. There’s a learning curve. There’s maintenance. There are awkward moments.

The Awkward Moments

Like the time I was talking to a colleague in the office—a woman I’d worked with for a few months but didn’t know that well. We were chatting about something completely unrelated when she made an offhand joke about her ex-boyfriend using a CPAP machine.

“God, that thing was so annoying,” she laughed. “The noise, the mask—it was awful.”

There was a pause. I could have let it go. Instead, I said, “I use one too.”

Her face changed immediately. The laugh died. She looked embarrassed.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” I said, and I meant it. “It keeps me alive.”

That moment stuck with me. Not because she made fun of CPAPs, but because I didn’t flinch. I didn’t feel embarrassed. I owned it. If wearing a machine on my face every night means I get to wake up, see my wife, go to work, travel, live—then I’ll wear the damn mask.

That’s the kind of confidence a CPAP gives you. Not in spite of needing it, but because of what it does.

The Daily Reality

People always ask me what it’s like living with a CPAP. Here’s the truth: it’s a bit like having a pet that you sleep next to.

You have to take care of it. Every morning, I rinse the mask and dry it. I refill the humidifier with distilled water. Once a week, I rinse out the tube. Every few months, I replace the filter. Every six months to a year, I buy a new mask because the seal stretches out and starts leaking.

It sounds like a hassle. And yeah, sometimes it is. But I’ve broken down on the side of the road and had to change a tire in the rain. That’s a hassle. Rinsing a mask for thirty seconds? That’s just life.

The bigger adjustments are the social ones.

When my wife and I go on trips, I have to pack the machine. It takes up a good chunk of luggage space. I have to make sure wherever we’re staying has a power outlet near the bed. Once, we stayed at a remote cabin in the woods, and I had to run an extension cord across the room because the only outlet was near the door.

Camping is tricky. I bought a battery-powered travel CPAP for a trip to Europe. It’s smaller, lighter, and runs off a rechargeable battery pack. But it’s also louder, and the battery only lasts one night before needing a recharge. Worth it, though. I’m not going back to gasping for air just because I want to sleep under the stars.

And yeah, traveling on planes is interesting. I pack my CPAP in my carry-on, and every single time, TSA pulls me aside.

“What’s in the bag, sir?”

“It’s a medical device. A CPAP machine.”

They always open it, swab it for explosives (I guess?), and then let me through. I’ve gotten used to it.

What I’ve Learned

If you’d told me ten years ago that I’d be sleeping with a mask strapped to my face every night for the rest of my life, I would have been horrified.

But now? I don’t think about it like that.

I think about the fact that I don’t get migraines anymore. I think about waking up next to my wife, feeling rested, and actually having energy to enjoy the day. I think about being able to travel, work, and just…live.

Before the CPAP, I was surviving. Now, I’m living.

Is it perfect? No. Some nights the mask leaks and wakes me up. Sometimes my nose gets dry and irritated. Sometimes I knock the tube off the nightstand in the middle of the night and have to fumble around in the dark to reattach it.

But those are minor annoyances. They don’t compare to waking up with a migraine so bad you vomit. They don’t compare to the fear of not knowing what’s wrong with you. They don’t compare to the risk of heart attack, stroke, or just…not waking up one morning.

My Advice (For What It’s Worth)

I’m not a doctor. I’m not a sleep specialist. I’m just a guy who spent years ignoring a problem, finally got tested, and started treatment that quite literally saved my life.

If you’re reading this because you snore loudly, wake up exhausted, or suffer from unexplained headaches—get tested. Don’t wait ten years like I did.

If you just got diagnosed and you’re staring at a CPAP machine wondering how you’ll ever sleep with it—give it time. The first week sucks. The first month is an adjustment. But by three months, it becomes normal.

And if someone makes fun of your CPAP, or you feel embarrassed about needing it, remember this: you’re using medical equipment to keep yourself alive. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of.

Where I Am Now

This is me at the Roman Baths in Bath, England, a few years ago. The water’s green from algae, and they don’t let you swim in it anymore, but it’s still beautiful.

I’m standing there, fifty-something years old, traveling with my wife, feeling good. No headaches. No crushing fatigue. Just a normal day.

I couldn’t have done this ten years ago. I would have been too exhausted, too miserable, too worried about the next migraine.

The CPAP machine sitting in my hotel room that night? It’s part of why I’m here, part of why I can enjoy this.

And honestly? I’ll take that trade any day.

⚠️ MEDICAL DISCLAIMER This blog provides general information only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Sleep apnea is a serious condition, and CPAP equipment should be used under proper medical supervision. Always consult your doctor or sleep specialist before starting, stopping, or changing any therapy. I share personal experiences as a CPAP user, not as a medical professional. Individual results vary. For medical guidance, please consult a qualified clinician or the American Academy of Sleep Medicine (aasm.org).