I'm smug. Just ask my blood pressure
Phrase: White coat syndrome.
Definition: “When you get a high blood pressure reading in a doctor's office and a normal reading at home. The anxiety of being around doctors in white coats can make your blood pressure rise,” says one internet site. Poster boy: Me, it seems. How do I know? The look on the pre-op nurse’s face when she saw the numbers on my blood pressure test was my first hint. What she blurted out next sealed the deal.
“You have high blood pressure.” Actually, she said it in all caps.
NUMBERS AREN'T GOOD
I thought she was going to have a heart attack. Fair enough. The numbers were something like 185-85. Go ahead. Google it. It’s not pretty.
“Maybe we should wait a few minutes and try again,” she said, not looking me in the eye. “Think calming thoughts. Do you do yoga?”
Five minutes is not going to matter, I thought. I’ve been here before, but hope springs eternal, so I said nothing. And yoga? That would be big no.
Five minutes later. 195-90 something. Her eyes bulged. “It’s supposed to go down.” Hospitals – and doctors – has always done this to me. Well, not doctors I meet in social situations. But when they pull out any medical device and turn my way? Apparently, my heart, and the rest of my cardiovascular system, go pitter patter.
It’s something to do with the fear they’ll find something.
A PEEKABOO BUMP
The problem is, the BP test was the last step before confirming my scheduled day surgery for an errant belly button.
It seems spinning your fiveyear-old granddaughter through the air like you did when she was three, then hoisting her onto a swing may not be the greatest ideas when you’re nearing 67. It seems I tore something and now have a peekaboo bump about the size of half a small marble there. A hernia.
It’s rather disturbing to see a little of bit of your inside trying to sneak out. It has meant months of wondering if I should or shouldn’t any number of things.
Shovel late season, wet and heavy snow? I did. Lug bags of groceries and garbage about. I did. Lift and swing around the grandkids during a winter visit. Nope. Get on the bike and go up a hill I’ve dubbed 3k Climb. Yup. Repeatedly.
The belly button stitch job is just around the corner, but the doctors weren’t thrilled about going at it with those BP numbers.
“You’re really active and if something happened, well, I have to be able to sleep at night,” one doctor put it, rather eloquently, I thought.
Really active.
The fact is, I’m very active. And a snob about it.
CYCLING MILEAGE
I’m not proud about being a snob – not too proud – but denial doesn’t create reality. When I took up cycling after a silly non-running injury hurt a knee, I really took it up. And when I retired from full-time teaching nearly a year ago, well…
My total cycling mileage for the last 52 weeks – yes, I keep track of it, using Excel – is 14,106.1 kilometres. That’s 8,877.9 miles. I know, who cares about the 0.1 and 0.9. Runners and cyclists do.
And I hate taking medications unless I really need them.
Being asked by the pre-op nurse for my list of medications and replying “None.” Priceless. See what I mean about being smug.
Sure, cough due to cold? Med me up. Covid vaccines? I had my sixth one in November. Yup, still got Covid. It was like a mild cold and lasted three days. And I cycled every one of those days.
Smug, smug, smug.
STRUTTING AROUND
Waiting to meet with the nurse, I got bored and spent a couple of minutes stretching by touching my toes. Well, touching the floor. Just to remind myself being 67 doesn’t mean you’re ready for the bone yard just yet. More smugness. Beautiful Wife now uses the BP machine she bought a couple of years ago to get my numbers three or four times a day. Yesterday morning: 145-72. The afternoon: 140-65. The evening: 141-65.
Today, about 20 minutes after a 54 – OK, 53.9 – kilometre bike ride: 141-71.
I strutted through the house. BW rolled her eyes. Four decades of marriage will do that. Up next, medical judgment day. I may not be so smug after that.