The Health Report: Week 6

This was an alternately good and bad week for the health. I had a bad week do to a number of different factors. The money situation went from tight to hopeless, so I couldn’t really keep eating as healthily as I had been, and was forced to rely on some of the food that’s been around for a while but which I’m really not supposed to eat. Seriously, by the weekend, I hadn’t just fallen off the wagon, I had eaten the wagon. Besides that, there’s the medicine situation. I take four pills a day (counting a multi-vitamin), and two of those are for my high blood pressure: 10mg a day of Vasotec, and 100mg of Toprol. Actually, they give me the generic for Vasotec, but that’s what my prescription is for. Last Tuesday, when I did the Health Report, my blood pressure was really good: 130/78. That becomes important later.

Anyway, so I had a bad week for food. I had lost 15 pounds, but a couple of them found their way back. I had too much caffeine, which I really don’t ever want to happen again, frankly, because it always leaves me feeling strung out and sick. I’ve had too much caffeine over the years, and basically it’s like the major drug of my life: I’m immune to the high, and now it just makes me want to puke. And my meds were running out. I stopped taking Vasotec last week, because I ran out of it completely. And I skipped a couple of days on the Toprol, trying to make it last.

This leads up to the biggest frustration of the week: going to the doctor. I’m a patient at the DeKalb Clinic, where I was referred in 2002 or 2003, when Student Health Services discovered my high blood pressure. I always knew I’d have high blood pressure, so that didn’t surprise me; I’ve always been fat, and it runs in my family on both sides. My grandmother, who is 75, still had problems with hers being extremely high, and she is ultra-thin. The medication she’s on shifts constantly because it doesn’t seem to work for very long. And my dad (not her son—both sides, see?) has been in the hospital a couple of times because his medication was too weak, or too strong, or his potassium levels just suddenly bottomed out. So, it wasn’t really a surprise. I was seeing Dr. Patel, one of their two cardiologists, but only once or twice a year. For a while now I’ve just called and talked to one of his two nurses, Megan and Jenny (both of whom, I have to say now, are wonderful, helpful, encouraging people), to get my prescriptions refilled.

In September, I called about a refill and a possible follow-up appointment, and Jenny told me that Dr. Patel had resigned. I was surprised and disappointed; I liked Dr. Patel, because he had sat me down and made things very clear to me (which is a necessity for me; I won’t trust a doctor who doesn’t explain things to me, even if it’s technical) that he could give me the medication, but the rest was up to me. Jenny refilled me for several months and told me to call back around the first of the year to see if they had found a cardiologist to replace Dr. Patel. Turns out they still don’t. I called last week, and the Clinic explained that they have a couple of different doctors coming in twice a week from a hospital in Rockford. I made an appointment and went in yesterday.

Now, I want to pause here, because this is important. I want to mention that, because of the situation with the food and the medicine, which left me a little woozy and full of massive headaches. Really, I have not been an overly fun person to be around. Besides that, Toprol’s a beta blocker, so I’ve also been sensitive and depressed. I need you to understand one thing about me here: I am very sensitive to my body and everything it does. When something’s out of a whack, even a tiny bit, I can tell. You’ll have to take my word for it, but it’s always been true. I’ve always been very intimate with how my body does anything. When I was a kid, I had a lot of ear infections. So many that there were fears of my becoming deaf. The doctor told me to pop my ears more often, and was later astonished that I had taught myself to pop my own ears without holding my nose. Can no one else do that? Anyway, I just want everyone to understand that I know what my body does, and when something’s wrong, I can tell.

The DeKalb Clinic turned out to be a hassle. I have no insurance right now and, I didn’t realize, that requires some upfront payment. I have about eight bucks in my checking account, and Becca was already going to pay for the prescriptions, so I wasn’t about to bring up another $85. I hadn’t told the Clinic I was no longer insured (not since graduating in August) because, frankly, I hadn’t thought about it. Every other visit had been under the umbrella of my limited, almost begrudging student insurance. I explained to the woman at reception that I’d been coming for years and was a regular patient, but didn’t realize about the money. The extremely unhelpful woman looked at my record and said: “You haven’t been here since 2005,” as if that settled something. Her tone of voice was spitting in my face and calling me a liar. I told her my situation, that I’d been calling and talking to the nurses—I didn’t tell her that they had originally been giving me free samples for years, because the nurses knew my student insurance didn’t cover prescription drugs—and that my blood pressure was mostly under control. She seemed disinterested in helping me, because the medical profession—the one thing every American needs access to—is nothing more than another American private business that is prohibitively expensive. I was already envisioning writing a post called “DeKalb Clinic (insert address) Wants Me to Die.” I looked at the woman and asked: “So, as far as the medication I need to continue living, am I just screwed?”

The woman made a call and then told me they’d send me a bill and to go see the cardiologist. She had a real glow about her, as though she’d helped me out as a kindness and really felt good about it.

So, I went to see this doctor from Rockford, Dr. Something. I can’t remember his name; even two minutes after leaving I couldn’t remember his name. Things started off well. I was taken into the examination room by Deanna, a nurse I hadn’t met before. I told her what was wrong; that I had missed some dosages, that I’d had some caffeine (even including some coffee with breakfast that morning), and that my blood pressure was going to be high. I could feel it in my body; I know when my blood is rushing faster than it should be, and when it’s too high my eyes start to hurt, which they did. I know what it feels like to be off the meds, and I could feel it just fine, thank you. Deanna was very polite and understanding, and gave me the benefit of the doubt, assuming that since it was my condition, I knew what I was talking about. She was even sympathetic when I lamented that my blood pressure a week ago had been 130/78, and was now 150/98, which is about what it was when my condition had first been discovered (I think the systolic number was higher). We traded some exercise tips, and I told her that I’d lost 15 pounds in the last six weeks because of this new, informal program I’m on. “Wow,” she said. “I know I just met you, but I’m really proud of you.” I felt pretty good, like I was on the right track and doing well. That’s always the way it’s been with me; if I want to stop doing something, I’ll usually just stop. That’s how I quit smoking, that’s how I gave up soda, and that’s how I’m going to stop being fat. Deanna, who really was tremendously encouraging and answered all of my questions, is exactly the kind of nurse you could wish for. She was also a massive help regarding my lack of insurance, and tailored my prescriptions to what’s affordable as far as quantity.

Now, my appointment was for 1:30, and even with the front desk rigmarole, I got to cardiology by something like 1:25. That’s just how I do. When I got there, Deanna informed me that the doctor had yet to arrive. She and I were done with our checkup and chat by about 1:50. I waited in that room for the doctor so long that I fell asleep. Seriously. I decided to try and relax myself to slow my heart rate by meditating. And in the process, I fell asleep in the chair for about 15 minutes. When I awoke, it was 2:21. Still no doctor. And then I heard a knock at the door. And then I just heard talking. Yes, Dr. Something was out in the hallway, with his hand on the door handle (I could hear that), talking with someone else about office politics, medical promotions, the difference between working in Rockford and DeKalb, all kinds of shit that was giving me zero help in getting my blood pressure medicine. When I get pissed off, which I did, I start wondering what I can do to get my own personal revenge. I looked around, even in drawers, but there wasn’t anything I wanted to steal. I mean, prescription slips were there, but it’s not like Wal-Mart carries marijuana, so what am I going to do with those? They weren’t even signed. I shoved some rubber gloves in my pocket. I can use them to clean the rabbit cage.

I already hated him when, after ten minutes of jawing and shooting the shit and talking about his family, Dr. Something walked in an hour late for my appointment. Obviously, none of this was important to him at all. But it was the handshake that cinched it for me. I’m sorry, but I still judge a man by his handshake. And this guy’s wasn’t just weak—it was nonexistent. He didn’t even have the decency to grip my hand back; he basically just let me take his hand and shake it a bit, like I was holding a jump rope. He didn’t return it. You know, that just shows how little a person thinks of you. It’s not the first time someone’s done that to me, and I refuse to deal with those people. Every single non-shaker I’ve had has turned out to be a fucking asshole. Act like a man, for chrissakes. We just met and already you’re trying to make me feel like an ass? Next time, I’m calling someone on that shit: “Shake my hand like an adult and look me in the goddamn eye, you piece of shit.” Fuck, be respectful, or at least polite. It just made me even more unbelievably pissed at this guy and his cavalier rudeness. His limp non-shake told me everything: this dope doesn’t care about me as a person, he sees me as a thing he needs to fix before moving on to the next one and just going home. He’s not mentally here. He does not care.

The first thing he said was: “You really need to start losing weight. It’s unusual for a man as young as you to have blood pressure this high.”

I told him what I had told Deanna: Weight loss program. 15 pounds in six weeks. No Vasotec for a week, no Toprol a couple of times. Caffeine. Hypertension runs in the family (so severely that my trim uncle was refused for service in the army at the height of the Vietnam fucking war). That my blood pressure had been great a week ago.

And it was as though I could see my very words leave my mouth and bounce right off of his face. Dr. Something just looked at my history and said I really needed to concentrate and walking and losing weight. “Yes,” I said. “As I explained…”, and I did it all again. Still nothing. The fucker was just out to lunch in his mind. He just made me sit on the table, listened to my breathing with a stethoscope, and told me I needed a renal ultrasound.

Wow, I thought, that sounds expensive.

He said again that I was too young for my blood pressure to be so high. I wondered if this hamster knew I was 30 years old, because he kept saying it as though I was a child. I pointed out, for the third time now, that severe hypertension runs in my family, that I had been sporadically dosed all week, and that I weigh 345 fucking pounds. Still, he wanted a renal ultrasound to rule out kidney failure. “I don’t think it is,” he helpfully added, “I just think we should be sure.”

Oh, is there a we now? Because up until then I wasn’t sure he even considered me a human being.

He also wanted me to track my blood pressure and come in for a follow-up in two weeks with a list of my results (I do actually check it at home). For an unemployed man, I was suddenly racking up a ton of doctor bills for a simple cardiology check-up and a prescription refill. And then Dr. Something unceremoniously left me alone in the room. I started to think that the stool would look really nice by my desk, because I need a new stool, but Deanna was far more prompt than he’ll ever be. She came back and explained that, since I was uninsured, I should wait for one of the days when the Clinic does its free blood pressure readings and come in then instead of making an appointment. Deanna, thank you. And bless you.

As you may have guessed, I am not making an appointment for a renal ultrasound. Make that, a totally unnecessary and costly renal ultrasound. I don’t need one. This is not remotely a kidney problem. You know how I know? Because I gave up soda seven weeks ago, and now I drink only water. I drink four to seven bottles of water a day and I urinate a lot. Not a diabetic amount, but the normal amount for a guy who drinks nothing but water all damn day. I know when I’ve been eating badly or drinking badly just by the color of my urine, okay? I’m not stupid; I know how my body works. In fact, while Dr. Something was yammering, I was thinking how I needed to take a piss. Like I said, I know when something’s even a little off inside. When I stopped overeating, I could feel the difference. If I were experiencing kidney failure, I would be in actual pain. And the pain is in my head, because of the lack of fucking medication!

I can’t believe that this Chuzzlewit wouldn’t want to give me a week or two back on the medication, and then, after checking my blood pressure, decide whether or not a renal ultrasound was even a remote possibility. He doesn’t listen to me, he doesn’t pay attention to what I’m telling him I know about my own damn health condition, he doesn’t even show up on time. Do you see how little he cared, or do you need another example? He gave me prescriptions for a full year, and says that I don’t need to see him until next January. Yeah, that follow-up in two weeks is with the nurse. Treat and street, I guess. He doesn’t consider me worth his time.

And the feeling’s mutual. Sorry, Dr. Something, but you’re a temp. What you say is meaningless to me. Just give me my meds and go to hell; I’ll take care of my medical problems myself.

Wow, that was long. So, what’s the good news? Well, I’ve moved up another notch on my belt, so my waist is actually getting slimmer. And hey, remember how I said that I was so fat I couldn’t see my penis? Yeah, that wasn’t a joke. But you know what else isn’t a joke? I can now. Hey, old friend.

Hello, balls
Haven’t seen you in a while
And I missed you
But now you’re making me smile
And now I get to see you
Instead of just your memory
Oh lonely balls
You keep me company.


And this is why I’m doing it; because it’s more important to look good than to feel good. Catchy phrase, isn’t it? Actually, I’m doing it for both. Because I want to feel better, and I want to be more attractive. And despite what Dr. Something thinks (or doesn’t), I’m going to do both of those things. And one day, when I’m thin and hot, I’m going to end up in an elevator with Jessica Biel. And on that day, I will unzip my pants, pull out my rapidly stiffening cock, and put it right in her hand. Because that’s the way I’m gonna roll.