The Old Coot is off the
chart.
By Merlin Lessler
You go to a doctor’s
appointment -the first thing they do, is check your blood pressure. Mine is
always above the 150/90 threshold. It’s normally well below that, but not at the
doctor’s office.
Of course, it’s high – here’s
why: a few days before my appointment, I start reminding myself that on Friday,
at 10 o’clock, I have to be at the doctor’s office. “Will I remember on Friday
that I have an appointment. Will I even know it is Friday? Old coots often
don’t know what day it is. “What day is it?” is a common question asked by
retirees. When told it’s Wednesday, we say, “It is? It feels like Tuesday.” So,
the stress of just trying to remember the appointment, starts the blood
pressure on an upward journey.
Then comes the logistics: “When
should I leave the house? Will a traffic jam hold me up? Is there enough gas in
the car?” Stress! Stress! Stress! I don’t want to get there too early and have
to wait with a bunch of old coots who don’t even know what day it is. I don’t
want to be late and forced to the end of the line. Thankfully, I manage to get
there on time, but it was a journey loaded with stress; the specter of lateness
sat next to me in the passenger seat, taunting me with images of traffic jams,
construction delays and flat tires.
I sit down and pat myself
on the back when I get there on time, thinking, “Now I can relax.” But, no! I
start wondering when my name will be called, if I have time to run to the
restroom, and if I do, will they come for me when I’m in there and think I
left. The anxiety builds every time they call a name. Finally, they get to me;
my blood pressure is through the roof.
“How are you,” the aide asks? “Stressed to the gills,” I say to myself, but
instead, answer with a lie, “Just great!” They ask me my birthdate; I get that
one right. “How tall are you?” I fumble with an answer, “I don’t know. I used
to be six foot-one, but I’ve lost some height. Put me down for five eleven.”
They weigh me, another test I’ll probably fail, but thankfully the scale
registers in kilograms and I can’t do the math. At this point, I don’t care.
Now I’m in for it, escorted
into the “Little Room” and hooked up to a blood pressure sleeve. As it starts
squeezing my arm, I explain to the nurse that it’s always high when I come
here. She hardly pays attention. Then, my failure shows up on the screen, 153
over 73, not my normal, 126 over 67. “No problem,” the nurse says, “I’ll test
it again after your exam.” That gets it going even higher and it keeps going as
I sit there waiting and waiting and waiting, wondering if I’ve been forgotten. When
the doctor comes in, the first thing he scolds me about, is my high blood
pressure.
I’m not allowed to leave
when he’s finished; I have to wait for my blood pressure to be re-tested. So, I
wait and wait and wait, scolding myself for not just getting up and going home.
Finally, the nurse comes back and re-tests me. I fail, but not as bad as
before. “Sit here for five minutes and then you can leave,” she tells me. I wait
four minutes and flee, regaining a small measure of self-respect. I’ve come to the conclusion that going to the
doctor, is bad for my health.
Comments? Complaints? Send
to mlessler7@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment