Living with Sleep Apnea: A Personal Journey
Explore a raw and personal account of living with sleep apnea, from the shock of diagnosis to the pain of surgery and the ongoing struggles. This story highlights the fight for meaningful moments and the strength found in overcoming challenges.


There are moments in life that hit you like a freight train, forcing you to rethink everything. For me, it was hearing the words, “If left untreated, there’s a chance you might not wake up one day.”
The specialist delivered it with the kind of calm that only comes with years of experience, but for me, it felt like the ground beneath me had shifted. I wasn’t ready to hear it. My daughter was only seven years old. The thought of her growing up without me… I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to fight. For her. For me. For a life that wasn’t cut short by something I had the power to address.
And so began my journey with sleep apnea—a journey marked by pain, perseverance, and lessons I never asked to learn.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
It wasn’t just about snoring. It wasn’t just feeling tired all the time. Sleep apnea had become a shadow over my life. Waking up gasping for air, nights that felt like a fight for survival, and days where exhaustion seeped into every part of me—it all came to a head in 2015.
The Sleep Study: A Night Under Observation
The sleep specialist recommended I undergo a sleep test. At the time, I was working in the BPO industry, so the test coincided with my waking hours. To prepare, I had to stay up all day just so I could fall asleep that night.
The sleep test was conducted in one of the biggest hospitals in Metro Manila, known for its high-tech and cozy facilities—but also for being very expensive. The cost weighed heavily on my mind as I prepared for the test, knowing that every step of this process was an investment in my health and my future. It added an extra layer of pressure, but also a determination to make the most of the opportunity. The room was divided by a large glass window: on one side, the technician monitored with all the advanced gadgets and gizmos, while on the other side was a hotel-like bedroom—cold, spotless, and seemingly comfortable. However, attaching wires to my scalp, chest, and legs quickly dispelled any comfort. Adding to the unease was the constant awareness of being watched through the glass window while I slept.
It was hard to relax, knowing that every movement and breath was being recorded. But I had to try. This was the only way to get answers.
Sleep didn’t come easily. The unfamiliar environment, the tangle of wires, and the knowledge that I was being observed made every minute feel longer. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I drifted off.
The morning came, and with it, the results. My Apnea-Hypopnea Index (AHI) score was over 60. Hearing this number left me in shock. I remember feeling a wave of fear and helplessness wash over me as the gravity of my condition sank in. It was a harsh confirmation of what I had been experiencing every night—my body fighting desperately for each breath, just to keep me alive. The AHI measures the number of apneas (complete pauses in breathing) and hypopneas (partial reductions in airflow) you experience per hour of sleep. Scores below 5 are normal, while 30 or more shows severe sleep apnea.
My score of over 60 meant I was stopping or reducing my breathing more than once every minute. The specialist explained this further, emphasizing how severe my condition was. Each apnea or hypopnea episode caused my blood oxygen levels to drop dangerously low, forcing my body into constant overdrive just to keep me alive each night.
Hearing it laid out like that was terrifying. The numbers didn’t lie, and they painted a grim picture. My sleep wasn’t sleep—it was a ticking time bomb.
The specialist didn’t mince words. Surgery was my best option. CPAP therapy and oral appliances might help in mild cases, but mine was too far gone. These treatments work by managing airflow and reducing blockages, but my condition was too severe for such measures to be effective. Surgery was the only option that could provide significant and lasting relief. Without intervention, my condition would worsen, and one day, I simply wouldn’t wake up.
When the topic of surgery fees came up, I told the specialist that I couldn’t afford it. Health insurance wasn’t an option either. He didn’t dismiss me; instead, he suggested that I hadn’t considered.
At that time, we were living in Batangas, and he had a former student who was also a surgeon based in Lipa. This strong endorsement made me feel that I was in capable hands. This surgeon could perform the same procedures at less than half the price.
The specialist didn’t just pass me off—he talked to his former student, endorsing my case and passing along detailed instructions. The surgery was to be done at San Antonio Medical Center in Lipa, Batangas, where I would receive the care I needed within my means.
The Triple Surgery: A Necessary Gamble
Each procedure had its purpose. The UPPP was meant to remove or reshape tissues in my throat to create a wider airway, critical for alleviating the severe obstructions during sleep. However, these surgeries were not without risks. UPPP could lead to complications like difficulty swallowing or changes in speech. The turbinectomy, while improving airflow, carried the possibility of chronic nasal dryness or other discomforts. And the tonsillectomy, though addressing obstructions, often resulted in severe post-operative pain. Together, these surgeries were both a solution and a gamble, one I had to take to improve my chances of survival. The turbinectomy and tonsillectomy addressed specific obstructions in my nasal passages and throat, which had long been compromised. Together, these surgeries were intended to work in unison to improve airflow, widen my airway, and reduce the life-threatening risks of sleep apnea.
I didn’t know much about these surgeries then. All I knew was that I wanted to live. I wanted to wake up in the morning and see my daughter grow up. Every time I thought about her future without me, it strengthened my resolve. The fear of the surgery paled in comparison to the fear of leaving her too soon, and it gave me the courage to face whatever lay ahead.
When the day came, fear mingled with hope. I knew there was no turning back. As I lay on the hospital bed, staring at the sterile white ceiling, I remember clutching a small photo of my daughter in my mind’s eye, her laughter echoing in my heart. It was the only thing that kept me from succumbing to the fear—the promise that I was doing this for her, so I could be there to watch her grow and thrive.
Recovery: A New Kind of Struggle
Waking up after surgery, the pain was immediate and unrelenting. Swallowing was impossible without agony. Even water felt like shards of glass sliding down my throat. Talking wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was unbearable. Any conversation lasting more than two minutes sent searing pain through my throat, forcing me into silence.
The throat and mouth wound was fresh, albeit cauterized. The biggest problem I had was the bleeding from the nose—unbeknownst to me, the blood was trickling freely and all of it was going to my stomach. At one point, I vividly puked black, right in front of a resident doctor making rounds with a group of observing medical students. It was mortifying. I felt exposed, both physically and emotionally, as all eyes were on me during such a vulnerable moment. The situation escalated to the point where there was so much blood everywhere that we had to change rooms, leaving me feeling both humiliated and deeply unsettled by the severity of what had just happened.
Eating was out of the question for weeks. I lived on thin liquids, sipping just enough to keep myself going. The only things I could manage were Jelly Ace, water, and popsicles (which somehow numbed the pain)—milk and any kind of liquid food hurt too much. My weight fell off rapidly, but not in a way that felt like an achievement. It felt like survival because of barely scraping by.
Nights were even harder. Sleep was supposed to be better now, but the dry air burned my throat, waking me up repeatedly. I had hoped for relief, but instead, I found myself battling new challenges I hadn’t anticipated.
Side Effects That Stayed
Years passed, and the pain lessened, but the scars from surgery lingered in ways I didn’t expect.
Talking has never been the same. Even now, years later, I avoid long conversations—not because I hate social interactions (although, truth be told, I do, but that’s beside the point)—but because talking physically hurts. This struggle is something I revisit in the 'Side Effects That Stayed' section, where the long-term impacts of the surgery are detailed further. Explaining things irritates me the most, so most of the time, I choose to stay quiet. It’s impacted more than just casual chatter; it has made connecting with others difficult. I often have to excuse myself or cut conversations short, leaving me feeling isolated or misunderstood.
Still, I’ve learned to manage these moments by finding other ways to communicate and maintain relationships. Speaking for more than a few minutes sends sharp pain through my throat. The hard part about this? Nobody knows how it feels, so nobody believes you. This also meant I couldn’t return to any job that required extensive talking, whether that be sales, customer service, call center work, or even my beloved broadcasting—leading me to embrace freelancing as a writer instead.
Then there’s the whistling. The turbinectomy left me with a loud, high-pitched sound every time I breathe at night. It’s disruptive—not just for me but for anyone within earshot. And choking has become a routine part of my life. Air, food, water, even saliva—it all feels like a threat some days.
These weren’t the outcomes I expected. I went into surgery hoping for a cure, but it felt like trading one heavy chain for another.
Was It Worth It?
For a while, the surgery seemed like a success. The nights of waking up gasping for air were gone, and my energy levels improved. It felt like a new lease on life. I had more stamina during the day, and for the first time in years, I experienced the kind of rest that didn’t leave me dragging myself through each hour. Simple things, like enjoying a morning with my daughter or focusing better at work, felt like victories I hadn’t known I needed. But over time, sleep apnea crept back, worsened by weight gain and life’s unavoidable stresses.
I often ask myself if it was worth it. Would I make the same decision knowing what I know now? Over the years, I’ve considered other treatments, like revisiting CPAP therapy or exploring newer surgical techniques. While the thought of starting over feels daunting, these options remind me that there are still paths to explore. They may not promise perfection, but they offer hope for better management. I don’t have an easy answer. I didn’t have the luxury of perfect choices back then. I chose the only path available to me—the one that gave me a chance to keep living for my daughter.
Lessons in Survival
Sleep apnea, surgery, and recovery have all taught me that survival isn’t clean or easy. It’s messy. It’s painful. And it forces you to carry scars—visible and invisible—that you never asked for. But it was worth it for a few years.
Now that it’s back, I grapple with a mix of frustration and dread. The thought of going through another round of sleep tests feels like revisiting a chapter I hoped was closed. Yet, I know it’s necessary. Understanding how much worse it is this time around might be the first step to figuring out how to manage it better. While the idea of starting over feels exhausting, there’s also a small sense of determination—because knowing is better than ignoring it and hoping it goes away on its own.
I’ve had to adjust. Talking less, managing my weight, learning to live with the whistling and the choking—it’s all part of my life now. Some days, I resent it. But most days, I remind myself why I chose to fight.
My daughter is older now, and she doesn’t remember those sleepless nights or the recovery that tested every ounce of my patience. But I do. I remember it because it’s a reminder of why I’m still here, fighting not just for survival but for the chance to live fully.
Reflections on the Fight for Every Breath
Sleep apnea is more than just a condition—it’s a battle for every breath. Surgery isn’t a perfect solution, and recovery isn’t a straight road. But when faced with the choice between fighting and giving up, I fought.
If you’re struggling with sleep apnea, know that you’re not alone. The path forward isn’t easy, but it exists. Ask the hard questions, seek second opinions, and remember that even imperfect decisions can still be the right ones for where you are.
Looking back, I realize this journey wasn’t just about battling a condition. It was about resilience and the will to keep going, no matter how many setbacks came my way. It’s about the moments I almost gave up but didn’t, the lessons I learned in the darkest hours, and the strength I found in choosing to fight for my life.
Whenever I get to talk to people about snoring, I share with them that they need to monitor not just the annoying sound, but if the person is struggling to breathe in between. I remember one conversation with a friend who described their spouse’s loud snoring and frequent gasps for air during the night. After hearing my story, they convinced their spouse to undergo a sleep study, which led to a diagnosis and treatment plan. If they observe the symptoms I had, I encourage them to get themselves checked. Sometimes, just having that conversation can make all the difference.
For me, it wasn’t just about fixing sleep apnea. It was about living long enough to see my daughter grow up. To hear her laughter, watch her discover the world, and know that I was there for her through it all. And for that, I’d do it all over again—whistling, choking, and all.


Reflections
Thoughts on life shared over morning coffee.
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