The Old Coot is off the chart

You go to a doctor’s appointment and 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 that 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 birth date; I get that one right. “How tall are you?” I fumble with an answer, “I don’t know. I used to be 6’1”, but I’ve lost some height. Put me down for 5’11”.” 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.  

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