You’re Down With DME - by Douglas

I am in the South. Know how I know? I just prayed with my DME supplier. I realize that many of those words need a good amount of explaining so get a Snickers. I’ll wait….

Let’s start with the DME - it stands for Durable Medical Equipment. It’s essentially any medical equipment made of something sturdy, like good hard plastic, that theoretically lasts a while. (That’s right, my medical conditions are destroying the planet. Suck it, Al Gore.) Please relax, concerned reader, all I’ve got is a little sleep apnea. For that, I use a CPAP machine which stands for something like “Challenging Pushed Air Pump” or “Cool People Aren’t Philip” or some such thing. The point of it is to push air into my throat via a mask while I’m asleep in order to keep my airway open since it seems to want to close at night, leaving me struggling for air and creating noises that turn my beautiful, serene wife into a beast that only Michael Vick could love.

To be fair, my long-suffering wife does tend to sleep better when the ambient decibels are less than the average Gwar concert. She has tried many helpful methods to stop my snoring long enough for her to get back to sleep. Such as pinching my nose til the she hears a loud “POP!”, digging her big toe nail into my leg like a velociraptor with a taste for shinbone, or poking my eyeballs like I was Shemp. All effective, but temporary.

But back to DMEs. I should tell you that one should use quotes around the word “durable” when referring to the CPAP air mask. I’ve had the marriage/life-saving equipment for a mere ten months and I was visiting this DME supplier in order to purchase my third mask. One hundred years from now, landfills will be overflowing with the chipped remains of CPAP masks that are virtually indestructible unless used as directed by a physician.

I will change the last name of my supplier out of respect for the man’s privacy. So let’s call him Mr. Boogerpicker. Specifically, let’s call him P.J. “Joe” Boogerpicker since that is what is on his business card. I’m not one to quibble with business cards but this one struck me as odd. I assumed the “P.J.” part was a nickname he used for shame of his first name, presumably “Persephone” or “Petunia.” Why then would he have another nickname, “Joe”, in quotes on the business card, instead of just P.J.? That’s right, on God’s side of the Mason-Dixon line we can have nicknames for our nicknames! Deal with THAT, Cleveland!

When Mr. Boogerpicker had finished showing me all of the features and nuances of this new mask and I had asked a few informed questions, I presumed our transaction was complete. So you’ll understand my surprise when, as I was preparing to walk out the door, Mr. Boogerpicker asked if I’d mind if he said a quick prayer. There’s really only one viable response here and it’s, “Uh...OK?”

So Mr. Boogerpicker prayed. I’m down with prayer, so technically nothing wrong was happening but it all felt…just…weird. I mean, I buy stuff all the time and nobody prays with me. And (irony alert) thank God for that because that would seriously slow down the line at Piggly Wiggly.

"Our Lord in Heaven, we ask that you forgive our brother for bringing twelve items into the express lane..."

“Dear Heavenly Father, we ask that you cradle Mr. Dyer safe in your holy arms as he rocks out with the Black Keys ‘Rubber Factory’ CD...”

“Dear Lord, we ask that you bless Mr. Dyer as he goes home to eat his value size quarter pounder meal. We pray that he pays attention to the road even as he tries to open the straw and insert it into his beverage and that as he sneaks a few fries out of the bag that he plans on handing to his wife, he will control his vehicle with his free hand...”

Hmmm, maybe we do need a little more prayer.