“Love, you’re a doctor’s worst nightmare. A hypochondriac who might actually be sick.”
I’ve been feeling crummy for the past few days. I often feel crummy this time of year, but this year I’ve got a bigger support team.
Five years ago I turned into a blubbering mess at my doctor’s office, as I tried to give her a description of how dark my world was, of how hard getting out of bed really could be, and she, in turn, gave me Prozac. The short version of this story: I got happy, got healthy, and then got off the drugs.
The short version then neatly segues to about a year ago, where we find our heroine again fat, again unhealthy, and again dramatically depressed.
I got a new doctor, a new prescription for Lexapro, and a fancy new thing called a Talk Therapist. For a $20 co-pay I get to spend 45 minutes a week with someone who pretends to enjoy hearing me worry about my job, my marriage, my mortgage, and whether or not the strangers in the supermarket really are judging my human potential by what I’ve got in the grocery cart. This time around, I also got a special introduction to the incredibly exciting world of anxiety disorder(s) (What will freak her out now? Oh no, ticket sales at EuroDisney are down! Someone might lose their job!! How stressful it must be, to be in charge of ticket sales for a theme park I’ve never been to, in a country in which I currently do not live!!! BREATHE!!!!).
Not taking anything special for that part, unless you count my investment in “Meditating for Dummies.” Because mostly I don’t like pills, and also because I come from a hearty Midwestern stock who believe that Seeking Help Is For The Weak. And also, that Casseroles Cure All Heartache.
But when what I thought was some sort of low-level anxiety attack reached into its third day, I thought to myself, “Self, why, I do believe this is not normal. And there are medical professionals who might be able to make it stop. Why pay so much money for a health plan you don’t use? And also, when was the last time you checked your blood pressure?”
To be honest, that last one didn’t come to me until I climbed out of the shower and back into bed, whining about the continued tightness in my chest, and begging my partner to check my pulse. When he couldn’t find one, I took that as a bad sign, what with him having a medical degree and all.
Anyway, 170/120. Sustained, throughout the day. With a resting pulse of about 110 beats per minute.
When you call with those sort of numbers, you get to see the doctor the same day. In any case, the EKGs all showed a normal heart rhythm with a very fast heart, due - we’re assuming - to the very high blood pressure, although we’re not entirely ruling out Something Scary due to the very young age at which my dad died of a heart attack. Also, now I get to take two more pills every day (three if my diastolic number is above 90!).
All in all, a very good reminder that I need to take better care of my body.
The two paths I’ve got here are starting to look like Better Fitness or Pharmaceutical Experiment.
I really hope I can choose the former.
