My Superheroic Alter Ego: Blood Pressure Elevation Girl

Faster than a racing heartbeat! More powerful than a punctured jugular! Able to generate her own anxiety at the flash of a single white lab coat...

It's the world's most boring party trick!...

It's an exciting new pharma giveaway!...

No! It's Blood Pressure Elevation Girl! Feel the rush!!

Yup, that's me. 

Aside from the time they couldn't get my blood pressure at all and I had to convince them I wasn't the walking dead...

My one big superpower has been going to the doctor's office and instantly shooting my otherwise-regulated blood pressure skyward to levels so unrealistic, that medical staff are ready to shield themselves in protective gear less I explode in a shower of coffee, bodily fluids and Cheez-Its.

Like most superpowers, this talent is both unwanted and mysterious.

I mean, it's not like I'm afraid of needles, blood, or have an irrational fear of $10 co-pays.

I'm not germophobic or unnaturally averse to the latest paper dressing gown fashions.

Yet the moment I get into the doctor's office, I can feel the anxiety creeping onto me like a radioactive spider. 

Breathing exercises don't work because then I start getting neurotic about that. 

"Am I breathing less than I normally do? Am I getting too much oxygen? Is it possible to get too much oxygen? Ack!.. Will the oxygen make the blood pressure rise from all the extra oxygen molecules, like one of those Three Musketeers Bars that float around the office on the commercials?!"

Reading the magazines doesn't take my mind off things, because someone helpfully stocked my entire doctor's office with health and medical magazines. Articles like "You Can Prevent Death Before 50" and "Your Colon and You" are not so much mentally transporting. 

I respect their efforts. But I just don't want to read about the place I already don't want to sitting in. I don't want to be learning about new diseases at this moment; the time for intellectual curiosity is not Now.

I want a nice boring Highlights for Children magazine with all the hidden items already circled. Or a supermarket rag covered in reality TV stars I've never heard of.

And then I get called in, and the medical assistant wants to take my blood pressure. I inform her in advance it's going to be higher than normal, because I don't want her to feel sad and disappointed. I figure it's good to set expectations. And as it's happening, I'm still there trying to will the number down, like I can control the blood pressure cuff with my mind.

Which, of course I can't, because telekinesis is not my superpower.

So she goes out of the room telling me my blood pressure is "a bazillion over many," and then has me wait seven years for the doctor, who will come in to take my blood pressure again, because they are Optimists.

But me, I am an over-achiever. So I will sit there and try to over-achieve on getting my blood pressure down. I will picture beautiful tranquil islands, and try to distract myself by counting all the letters on the posters taped to the walls. 

I can tell you how many babies are on the vaccination poster. (Nine. Four facing forward, five posed sideways.)

I will examine my nicely-printed chart of perfectly normal blood pressures from home over the last three months, and develop my defense case for the doc. 

"See, I can prove I'm not compulsive hypertension liar." And I will examine my own personal blood pressure cuff, to make sure the batteries are still good. If I am waiting there seven years, I can do this a good many times.

Clearly, I am a sick woman, but not in the area they think.

So today, I went to the doctor's for this very thing. Expecting this very same scenario. And the doctor said: "120 over 77. Perfect!"

I had her repeat it. And I am now befuddled. My superpower is gone? Am I like Hiro when he lost his time travel capabilities?

Will I wake up the next time, with the ability to... oh... write equally well with both hands? ("I am... Ambidextra!")

Will I suddenly be able to accurately estimate how many jellybeans in a jar? ("You may call me... The Quantifier.")

Or maybe I'll finally be able to wrap Christmas presents so they don't look like a five-year-old thumbless child did it. ("I am... the GiftMaster!")

Now I think about it, I hope it's that last one. Christmas is coming. And anyway, I won't need the superpower of self-elevated blood pressure.

I'll just go to the mall on Black Friday.

___________________

So tell me: what's your superpower?

No Vampirization without Caffeination

So this morning I had to go for some routine bloodwork. And yes, I saw a couple of you cringe just now at the thought of needles... And bodily fluids... And giant rubberbands whipped around to try to find veins which are shy, sleepy, and not so interested at popping out to say "hi" at 7 o'clock in the morning.

And while I sympathize with you-- and the veins, too, frankly-- and suggest you elevate your feet for a moment and put a cold compress on your head.... there, that's more like it... I have to say, the blood-letting itself does not bother me.

Sure, my friend Scoobie has been known to keel over in a drop-dead faint and look like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story at the very thought of it.

But I am not bothered by the modern version of leeching. If a leech were involved, perhaps, yes, we'd have to come to some sort of new accord, the leech and I. I'd have some questions about its lifestyle.

But the needle... the needle and I have already come to terms. What really bothers me about going to have bloodwork done is...

I cannot have coffee.

See, regular readers, like you there with the cold compress on the head, you've heard me say how I write my posts half-caffeinated in the morning as part of an important morning Columbian-bean-stimulant consumption ritual.

But when you're supposed to fast for 12 hours before the vein-poking begins, the critical bean-runoff ingestion portion of my morning ends up with a 2-hour-long "Postponed on Account of Vein" delay.

This does not work for me.

And why this does not work for me was proven this morning in a very public place.

Defying all odds, I managed to get myself showered and dressed and possibly-- although the verdict is still out on this-- even with eyeliner on my eyes that doesn't resemble a Tammy Faye Baker crayon portrait.

This, however, is all routine. What was not routine was me plucking myself from the safety and comfort of my home, where the coffee lives, to getting behind the wheel of a several ton automobile, with no greater sense of who I was, or what I was doing there, than an amnesiac soap star.

Fortunately, the Place of Vampirization is only 15 minutes from my house, and traffic in that direction is light. So while I made it to the very building I needed to, a small problem emerged once I was in the lobby.

Not only did I not remember where the room was for these Modern Leechers I'd seen at least three times before...

I completely blanked on the name of the company that did the leeching. The company I'd phoned only a few days earlier.

I stood there at the directory scanning my mind for the name. And in asking the brain to cough up the info, I learned the brain was more than happy to provide all sorts of information I didn't actually need to know.

Brain: Your first grade teacher was Mrs. Schoal!

Me: Lab company... lab company...

Brain: Did you know that the reason colored bubble bath looks white when it foams has to do with light refraction?

Me: What is the name of that lab company?

Brain: Judge Reinhold. That was the name of the actor you were trying to think of last week. You can thank me later.

Me: No, no, no optics, no childhood memories, and no co-stars from Beverly Hills Cop! Curse all Judge Reinholds and the squad cars they rode in on. I need to know the name of that lab company!

And that's when a voice outside of my brain decided to be helpful. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Oh. I blinked. A person. And I found myself saying to her the only sentence my poor, leaden brain could manage. "Yes, but I haven't had coffee."

As if "I haven't had coffee" explained every important question she could possibly hit me with following that. As if I was worried next she'd ask me some real toughies. Like: how do you operate a nuclear accelerator?

She didn't. She seemed to think it was better for me to deal with my amnesia alone, and zipped off.

Well, I finally found the place, and eventually did get my cup of coffee. But to my embarrassment the lab company is called the rather obvious, descriptive name of "Labcorps."

Which just goes to show, addiction is an ugly, ugly thing. (Sluuurp!) Ahhhhh....

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PS- could some of you tell me stories of strange things you've done when you're tired? I really don't even care if they're real. Lie to me. I'll feel better.

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