I had not been really well for a while. So I went to see the doctor. Didn’t get to see her right away, of course, but her nurse took my blood pressure and pulse. To attach the oximeter clip she asked to “borrow my finger”. Ok, I said, but I do want it back. She also took my temperature. Through the ear, if you ever heard such a thing. A young man in a white coat then introduced himself as the doctor’s PA. He brought a small laptop computer with him and asked me many questions, from what I had for breakfast to how often I get up at night, keyboarding my answers into the device.
Then the doctor entered, in a cheerful mood. First she studied the PA’s notes and then asked me more pointed questions. It was a long conversation about how the body works or, sometimes, does not work. And then the fun started. She examined me, looking at everything beginning at my big toe, the one with the fungus infection, and ending with my nose which is constantly stopped up, causing me to sleep with my mouth open. After listening to my heart, though, she became serious. We must do a stress test, she said. By “we” she meant “me” of course.
She also wanted to check on my electrolytes. I was hoping that I would not need any more potassium because I find those bricks so hard to swallow. When I mentioned my leg cramps her response was to prescribe more potassium and also magnesium, which is even harder to swallow. Then, of course, she was interested in the condition of my cholesterol. Thank God my angiogram had shown that my arteries were clean. This is important because I like butter and cheese which are no-nos for people with clogged pipes. The recommendation was to go ahead, eat cheese but only Comte which happens to be the most expensive cheese on the market. The doctor picked that brand because it contains less salt than other brands. I must stick to my sodium restrictions to keep my blood pressure low. My oatmeal is now cooked without salt which makes for a bland breakfast, the punishment for having a defective heart.
But there are also rewards. Since I need to gain weight I get to dribble extra olive oil on everything I eat. I now eat my bread, not the biblical way, in the sweat of my face, but dunked in oil as those smart Italians do with their funny Mediterranean diet. Evviva la dottoressa!
But then she also ordered a glucose tolerance test, an electrocardiogram, and an ultrasound examination of my varicose veins, something that is done by a specialist technician called in for the purpose. For my next visit I was asked to bring a urine sample. It should be the first in the morning. Also needed was a stool sample, the last of the day (as if I could predict such events!) Oh yes, and be sure to be fasting for your sigmoidoscopy. I do not feel any symptoms in that neighborhood but we do this to be sure, I was told. Also on my list of to-dos were tests for tuberculosis, flu shots, rabies shots, and a bone density scan. Heaven help me, I thought. Why did I ever submit to all this? Can I even afford to be that healthy?
It occurred to me that I probably made this appointment in a fit of senior madness. The doctor apparently was thinking along those lines, too. Why else would she have added a brain scan to the list? I do not remember if she said MRI, MRA, or MEG. But whatever it was, they were going to stick my head into a huge donut and look for my brain. I gave in.
That was several weeks ago now. I have not heard from the Lab. I suspect they looked but found nothing and were too polite to tell me that nobody was home. This could be an embarrassing revelation. On the other hand, when I read in the newspaper every morning what all happened yesterday, what weird things people did and said for all the world to hear, I am consoled. Apparently I share this condition with a lot of others.
(c)2018 by Herbert H. Hoffman. Picture credit: clipart