Blood Pressure Rising
By: Matt Baetz
Tags: Fiction, Therapy, Blood Pressure, Physicians, Doctors

Based on a True Story.

INT. Doctor’s Office — DAY

“No smoking, no alcohol, no pizza, no tomato-based foods, try to avoid salt altogether, no chocolate…”

She said it all with a straight face and all I could think was,

What I wish my numbers were.

“Are you sure you don’t want to throw in television, sex, and smiling, Doc?”

It wasn’t her fault. She was simply reacting to the data suggesting that my blood pressure was high. Can’t argue with that. Can’t argue with data. Data is, after all, data.

And I was in no position to argue. I hadn’t plan well and was wearing my new french fry boxers I got for Christmas from my girlfriend’s grandmother. To add insult to injury I was in the classic patient’s gown except she had me put it on open in the front. Has that always been the S.O.P.?

“I’m actually not a Doctor. I’m a Physician’s Assistant. But I’ll relay all of this to your Doctor. Can you think of anything else that might be adding to your stress levels?”

Sure there were lots of things but I couldn’t get past the idea that I was somehow being screened from the doctor. This felt new as well. I mean we’re all used to a dental hygienist cleaning our teeth before the actual dentist comes in, picks up the hook and mirror, and does a quick once over but had this process seeped into General Practitioner’s offices as well? Like a gas station attendant in Jersey? Or a waiter acting as middle-man on my undercooked steak? I was distracted.

“Mr Baetz?”

“Yes. Right. Um… well… I mean, one of my favorite aunt’s passed away the day after Christmas. I just turned 40. I am on unemployment for the first time in my life. Oh and my father has been dating this woman pretty much since the moment my mom died two years ago. But, um, no, nothing I can think of.”

It speaks volumes when you can say something to a doctor and literally make them take pause, stop taking notes, and react personally to what you’ve just said.

“I’m so sorry. That is a lot. Are you seeing anyone?”

“I mean, I live with my girlfriend.”

“No I meant, a therapist?”

“I was. I stopped.”

“Why?”

“Ran out of stuff to talk about.”

“You ever think of going back?”

“Sure, it just seems so entitled. Ya know, 40-year-old white guy complaining about how life didn’t turn out to be absolutely fair. It’s ridiculous. I got tired of hearing myself talk in there.”

“And you stopped because you didn’t like talking about yourself?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how I did it for so long. It’s so incredibly self-indulgent. The world doesn’t need more white men complaining about our lot in life.”

“Well, I am sorry you’re going through that and regardless of your gender or race or age you should be able to discuss these things and seek help if you need it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’m going to give you the number of a few doctors we recommend.”

“Are they on the east side?”

“Pardon?”

“My last therapist was on the Upper West and aside from running out of things to discuss the commute was horrendous.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Also many of these doctors now offer video conferencing sessions so you can do them from home.”

“Oh.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“It’s just a little impersonal. And I get distracted easily. Plus I know lots of people don’t wear pants.”

“They don’t wear pants?”

“No, they don’t wear pants. They just put on a button down and then conduct the conference in shorts or underwear.” I said, as I glanced embarrassingly at my french fries. “Some are bottomless. And I just don’t think I could take anyone seriously if I thought they might be pants-less.”

“Well, maybe start there. I also want you to buy a blood pressure device. Fill out this form. It tracks your blood pressure. You want to shoot for something below 120/80.”

“What is mine currently?”

“156/92”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. I need you to check it every morning when you wake up and every evening before dinner. I want you to come back in two months so I can see the results.”

I was beginning to think I would never see my doctor ever again. Which, considering I couldn’t remember my doctor’s name to begin with, wasn’t that heart-breaking. Like many people I suppose I had signed up for whichever doc was both covered by my no-longer active insurance and was on my no-longer existent commute. It had nothing to do with name recognition. In fact the doctor I had signed up with had apparently moved to a new location and upon hearing the news from the receptionist who notified me that she had left, I simply inquired, “Who else ya got?”

None of this mattered at the moment however. I was picturing the rest of my morning -which was supposed to be booked with directionless wandering about the city- being hijacked by a trip to CVS or Duane Reade to join the ranks of people who own their very own blood pressure machine.

“So when you say in the morning, do you mean like as soon as my eyes open or like after I hit the snooze button five or six times?”

“When you get up out of bed.”

“Okay…”

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah it’s just, well, we’re checking my blood pressure right so when I wake up sometimes I’m awake and in bed but not standing yet but that doesn’t mean things haven’t caused my blood pressure to rise.”

“Like what?”

“Any number of things. What Trump did while I slept, masturbation, violent internal arguments with old employers that never happened nor will happen in reality.”

“That’s fair. Let’s go for as soon as you wake up. I want you to get out of bed, check your blood pressure and then, if I may recommend something, don’t get back in bed.”

I took a deep breath in as my mind tried to compute the idea of mornings not spent in bed.

“ And then at night you want me to do it before dinner. What if I’m out?”

“Do you go out a lot?”

“Not lately.”

“Can you check it before you leave?”

“Yeah I guess I can do that.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“No, just, ya know, tell Doctor…Doctor-what’s-his-name I said hello.”