My last trip to the doctor actually started during the trip before that, which was about three months ago. My blood pressure was too high. He wasn’t happy, and he wanted me to monitor my blood pressure and send him a message and come back in 3 months. I didn’t monitor my blood pressure, we couldn’t find the cuff, and the elevator at worked stopped working, and I could come up with a hundred excuses. He wasn’t impressed.
“Look, we need to get you started on a blood pressure medication. If it isn’t high, you have problems we can stop. It might be causing too much damage, so we should get started.” He said, handing me a blood pressure cuff. “Tell me again, have you ever taken anything for high blood pressure before?”
“No, I haven’t.” I said looking at the little cardboard rectangle. It seemed to be the opening of the door to old age. I turned it over, looking at each side, the monotony of modern packaging. Designed to lull you into casual acceptance, hypnotized by the blandness. How many times have I looked at a box like that? It stares back at you, promising accuracy and ease. The miracle of technology.
“I’m 63 years old, almost everybody in my family has high blood pressure and has taken medicine for years. I guess it’s not that big of a deal. I’ve been pretty lucky.” I was almost apologizing for having high blood pressure. He seemed upset, I let him down.
“I’ll send in the nurse to give you a covid booster. And, I’d like you to come back in about a month.”
I sat there, staring at my box. I didn’t know what to think of it. Was it a new beginning, or the beginning of the end? It was such a small box, maybe 4 inches wide and deep, and 6 inches tall. It was white with light blue and red stripes. It was unspectacular in almost every way. But I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
I was trying to decide whether it was the first step toward declining health, a slow miserable end, the years of neglect and abuse coming to collect and I would be forced to pay the toll. It was a puzzle. I felt lost in that tiny room. I was sinking into morbid self-pity.
A slight tapping at the door, and “the nurse” walked in.
In my doctor’s office there seem to be several categories of employees, most of them don’t really bother introducing themselves, at least not by title. They just come out and ask my name and date of birth, whisk me away to weigh me, take my blood pressure and grill about my medicine, and diet, and ask if have any complaints or ailments. And always, why I’m there.
“He told me to come back.” Is the only answer I can give them. It never seems to be what they want to hear. And until last week I thought they were all nurses. Turns out they were some sort of physician’s assistants, or something else with several words strung together, nurse-practitioners.
This was a nurse, and she was in charge, and she wasn’t going to put up with any crap off me.
“I’m here to give you your booster shot.” She saw the blood pressure cuff in my hands. “I’ll be calling you.” She told me.
They were preparing my vaccine and she asked me some questions about allergies, and aches and pains. She stopped, looked at me.
“You’re 63, can I ask you a question?” She said.
“Sure, go ahead.” I said. Wondering if there was a way to stop her.
“I’m 60. Do you feel old?”
“Sometimes. Most times I feel OK.” What do you say to that?
She told me she had carried her granddaughter around the zoo on Sunday and it made her feel old. I told her it was no big deal; it would make anybody feel old.
Eventually, she got the shot, and gave it to me. I looked away, I just don’t like to watch. I never have.
“Are you afraid?” She asked, almost an insult.
“No, I just don’t want to see it.” I explained.
“All done,” she said, with a startling kindness I had trouble processing. We sat there, for “safety” for about 5 minutes. She talked and made me a new vaccine card with all four shots on it. I looked at my box.
When enough time had passed and she felt confident I wouldn’t have a reaction she handed me the card and escorted me out to the waiting room.
She told me to set in a chair and handed me a timer, she looked at her clipboard, and the wrist band with my name and birthdate and said, “Wait here until the timer ends then you can leave. I will be calling you. But I know you’re going to the do the right thing, take your medicine, cut back on your salt, it’s important. And avoid stress.”
For the first time I really looked at the person, above the face mask. Her eyes were kind and spoke of a lifetime taking care of clods and oafs, people who don’t take their medicine. There was a sadness in her eyes, but it was mixed with concern and care, and coated with a layer of icy determination, an iron strength that said, “don’t even think about screwing up.” I knew things were going to be alright. The little box came with a watch dog in the form of an irritable nurse. I was going to be ok. I might even live forever.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
