233 is the number of times I stopped breathing during my sleep study last week.
I'm going back this week for round two, where I will learn to love the noisy, claustrophobia-inducing CPAP machine that I'm told will lead to the happy state of well-restedness. I didn't do so well last time. This time, I'll remember to bring my pillow, a quilt and . . . my camera so I can share a Frankenstein-like image of myself. I thought all those sensors (and glue and tape) would keep me awake, but it was the oxygen monitor clipped to my finger that was the most distracting.
As I learn more about sleep apnea, I wonder how much of the physical and lifestyle changes I've seen in myself the last few years and attributed to aging, menopause, allergies, extra pounds and Michigan winters may be cured by some real sleep.