Hmph. Numbers. Never really liked ’em. Now that they’re attached to the Medical Practitioners in my world, I like ’em even less. 
There is a reason why doctors still refer to their careers as “practicing medicine” because I do believe they are still practicing as they go along. On us.
I did not get to serve “Tea with T.” yesterday because I was side-swiped by a bizarre medical event that has happened to me every now and again. A couple of years ago my blood pressure skyrocketed, landing me squarely in an urgent care where the docs said I’d had a panic attack. This, despite the fact that I was spending time in the company of the two most peaceful individuals I’ve ever known. I’d had a nice breakfast, we’d gone to Costco for their weekly pet bird food shopping (big birds, apparently eat chicken drumsticks – who knew?) and I found myself outside unable to breathe, with pain on my left side and ultimately flat on the sidewalk. Costco wasn’t even crowded – so, what anxiety Dr. McSmartyPants?
Last year, I again had a blood pressure reading of 186/115 (normal is 120/70), pain in my temple and got the $1500 taxi ride to the hospital. Again, docs on duty said it was anxiety. Now, I don’t mean to be impertinent – because I didn’t buy the books and go to school for this – but, if my heart rate was 54 the whole time they kept questioning me “Do you have sense of impending doom?! Are you feeling frightened?!” and my answer was a consistent “Uhm… no.” How can that be labeled anxiety?
I was sent home with a prescription for anxiety pills I never used, because the one they made me take left me feeling like I had a meat cleaver in the center of my forehead. Not my idea of a good time. No, thank you.
When the blood pressure again spiked a couple of weeks ago, the lovely woman who has become my Medical Practioner [Prac*ti*tion*er (noun) a person actively engaged in an art, discipline, or profession, esp. medicine.] gave me a prescription for a blood pressure medication to keep it manageable. Since I don’t have classic text book hypertension, I was told to snap the pills in half, because I didn’t require a large dosage, just enough to keep the numbers low. In the meantime, her staff congratulating me on having “perfect bloodwork.” Great cholesterol numbers, awesome sugar levels, hormonal digits in balance, etc. All the numbers were perfect.
Like a patient, I listened to doctor’s orders, took my meds and my blood pressure numbers stabilized for a couple of weeks. Then, last night, when I didn’t feel well enough to capture the license plate of whatever it was that hit me, my blood pressure dropped to 86/43. One cannot be upright at a keyboard of any kind when that happens. In fact, I went to bed and slept for ten hours. I counted.
Since the doctors don’t know what to do with me, me with the wonky numbers (I’ve never liked numbers – how ironic that it is numbers that plague my days now), I believe I’m going to have to go and find something to be nervous about… just to make the Practitioners happy. At least until, they’ve practiced long enough to figure me out. Their practice might make me perfect. At least, I’m kind of counting on it.
xo – t.
“Practice does not make perfect. Only perfect practice makes perfect.” ~ Vince Lombardi
“An ounce of practice is worth more than tons of preaching.” ~ Mahatma Ghandi