No, I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve managed to leave a few comments around the blogscape, but I just haven’t been motivated to post anything lately.
I’m feeling… blah. Depressed. And totally unsexual.
I wrote in my Live Journal that two months ago, during one of those New England storms that dumped loads of snow and ice on the area, I had spent a couple of hours outside shoveling and snowblowing, including dragging a 150 lb snowblower up some stairs. I hadn’t felt well most of the day, and by the time I came inside my chest was hurting. Knowing that my blood pressure is always on the high end of normal, and that my cholesterol is also inclined to be high, I called a nurse friend of mine to describe the symptoms. She suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get my ass to the nearest hospital. I tried to sneak out of the house to drive myself, but that plan didn’t work out. We found someone to watch our daughter, and headed out into the storm to the nearby university hospital.
They hooked me up to a bunch of wires, poked holes in my arms for blood, and did some tests. My blood pressure was through the roof, doubtless in part to merely having to be there in the first place, and in part to the fuss that my family made about it. After a few hours of observation, they informed me that my blood pressure was too high, gave me some pills, and told me to contact my doctor. The chest pains were probably a combination of the high BP and some general stress (business owners are prone to this), and lugging a damn snowblower up the stairs.
Anyway, the last two months have been a seemingly constant blur of blood tests, EKGs, and various other examinations that would please all but the most jaded medical fetishist. My doctor figured that since I’m already approaching the half-century mark, I’d have to be getting all this done in the next few years anyway, and we might as well do it now.
I’ve had a stress test, and even as I write this I’m wearing a harness… not a strap-on harness, but something to hold the device that tracks the electric impulses around my heart area. I’ve got a dozen wires taped to various body parts, and if I were more of a masochist I’m sure I’d enjoy the feeling of the tape ripping the hair from my body as they remove the electrodes. I know it’s going to hurt, because in the last couple of months I’ve had a hell of a lot of hair ripped from my body. I’ve also had some odd patches partially shaved and, me being of the hirsute nature, it makes me look a bit odd when I’m shirtless.
The upshot is that so far I appear to be healthy, at least within some normal range of the term.
So, why am I depressed?
It seems silly, doesn’t it? I’m taking blood pressure lowering meds that within a few weeks have actually lowered my BP to well within normal levels for the first time in years. I’m taking something else which is supposed to lower my cholesterol, although I won’t know for sure until the next serious of blood tests confirms this. My eyesight, though starting to change, is still better than normal. I’m overweight, but not by much, and indeed, I’ve already lost fifteen pounds during this. I should be dancing in the streets, right? Counting my blessings and all that?
I think that my problem is this: we all have an “age” that we feel. Mentally, I tend to think of myself as being about 28. Physically, except for some grey hair, I’ve had nothing to contradict this mental attitude.
I think that for the first time I’ve been caught by surprise by this whole “getting older” thing. I’ll be 49 in a few months, and it is only this situation which has made me aware that I’m not repeating my 28th birthday over and over again. Adding to the surprise is a bit of frustration, too: I’ve taken relatively good care in watching what I eat, taking vitamins, and being moderate in using alcohol. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, and park halfway across the lot so I can walk to the store. I grill simple vegetable and meat dishes, rarely touch fast food, and buy veggies fresh when in season. Part of me wants to know which department should get the complaint email; I’ve been taking good care of myself so these kinds of things shouldn’t happen, right?
The doc says that all this has been beneficial; that with my genetic predisposition I’d probably be much worse off if I hadn’t been so moderate in my lifestyle. All I know is that it feels unfair.
Whew. It felt good to finally get that out.
Okay, I’m going to stop with the whinging. I’m much better off than a lot of other people, even people half of my (physical) age. Things in general could be much worse, and I am indeed fortunate to live in an advanced technological age where I don’t have to be so concerned about these issues.
I’m really going to try to get over this. It’s just a bit of a shock, you know? As I keep saying: I’m too young to be this old.
If you found this interesting, you might also be interested in some of my other real-life experiences which are listed in the True Tales page.