Monday, 6 April 2015

The Poundland Ironman

I realise it must be a little worrying for some of you. I write about some health issue or other, and then you get nothing but radio silence for over a month.

I mean, for all you know I might have already pitched face-first into my soup, clutching at my chest and whispering some final truths to my dining companions, together with the logon for my internet banking so Katie could cancel the direct debit for the Mens Health magazine subscription.

Of course, in these days of social media we never truly disappear, so most of you will know that I am, in fact, still vaguely upright. I have been prescribed a veritable cornucopia of pills. And I'm here to tell you that those inexpensive blood pressure monitors you can buy in Boots are cheap for a reason.

I religiously logged my BP for a month. As the doctor ordered, I chose different times. Sometimes I monitored in  the morning. Sometimes I monitored in the afternoon. Sometimes I monitored in the...well, you can see where this is going. I was a monitoring fool. But the numbers remained stubbornly high until I went back to the doctor for a follow-up. I'd literally just measured my pressure at home beforehand and marvelled at the numbers which suggested my heart was working away like a fire appliance. So when I asked him to do it at the surgery, there were mixed emotions when the numbers he got from his old-fashioned but clinically calibrated device were significantly lower than the lump of plastic at home that had tormented me for the preceding four weeks.

So I'm back on the bike, having solemnly sworn to She Who Must Be Obeyed that I would avoid hills and other general silliness. This makes me happy as I feel like I'm doing something positive, and my 1,000 mile challenge is back on. I'd quite like to do something impressive, cycle-wise, later this year and getting out there regularly is a step in the right direction. I'm beginning to feel guilt if I don't get on the bike, so emotional self-blackmail is back on the menu.

As you'd expect, I'm not out of the clutches of the medical profession yet. This week I'm back at the hospital again for something called an Ambulatory Blood Pressure Test. Essentially, after a certain amount of prodding and poking, they're going to strap a blood pressure monitor to me, which I'll have to wear for 24 hours. Throughout the day - and, worryingly, the night - this thing will go off at regular intervals so they get a true picture of how my internal plumbing copes over a longer period.

They say I'm not to stay at home, but to go about my normal business as they need to see how I cope with the rigours of everyday life. Of course, given that my everyday life isn't normally interrupted every 30 minutes by beeping and the muffled sound of inflation and deflation, this is by nature a little artificial, but I'll do the best I can.

When it beeps, I'm actually meant to drop what I'm doing, stop what I'm doing, sit down and raise my arm to keep the cuff at heart height. Which, of course, will be nicely unobtrusive and not at all a disturbance. Driving is going to be fun, given that whole pesky 'turning the steering-wheel and changing gear' thing. But the kicker is this - I'm not allowed to speak while the monitor is doing its business. I'm thinking of wearing a sign. I have meetings at work that afternoon. My colleagues aren't used to seeing me go quiet and then hearing the sound of rushing air coming from my person.

Well, not since I ditched the high-carbohydrate diet, anyway.

In a way I've been here before. Several years ago when I had sleep problems, the very same hospital strapped another set of monitoring equipment to me to wear in bed. We came the the conclusion that one of the things likely to stop me sleeping was having medical analysis equipment attached to me. I remarked at the time that I was gussied up like the Poundland Darth Vader; this next week's experience will be somewhat similar, but I'm imposing it on my co-workers too.

They are lucky, lucky people.

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