I walk through life half asleep, which is just a small exaggeration. No matter what I try, I feel sleepy until wokeness (and I don’t mean that in the political sense) finally hits me. Sometimes that’s at 11 am, sometimes at 3 p.m., sometimes not till evenings. But I function, at least during the week while I still have a full-time job. I will be retiring at the end of March 2027 and wonder if I will spend my retirement sleeping.
Right now, I’m sitting in Starbucks, drinking a grande Pike’s Roast, hoping that will finally wake me. It’s 12:33 p.m. on a brilliant, sunny Sunday afternoon. If anything, the glare of the sun makes me squint and feel more tired. So I hide inside with a cup of coffee and my laptop.
Maybe if you’re reading this, you are worried about my health. Maybe I should be worried about it, too. It’s not like I haven’t spoken to doctors: lack of Vitamin D, lack of iron, too many nighttime meds, restless leg syndrome, possibly sleep apnea. I try to explain to them about my bladder needing to be emptied 2-3 times a night, about Timmy, my elderly cat, who pounces on my lap as I pee and insists on fresh wet food every time I get up at night. That means I travel all the way down to the first floor, clean out cat dishes, open a new can and feed him. If he doesn’t eat enough, I must coax him by bringing the food into my bedroom. He likes to eat as he sits beside me. By then I’m fairly awake, and it’s not always easy to fall asleep again. I don’t think I need a sleep apnea study. I think I need to see a nephrologist about my kidneys and get Timmy some sort of automatic fresh food feeder.
My doctor is now worried about my heartbeat, or lack of one. Her nurse, Deb, can’t seem to get a reading of my pulse outside 32-36. She is an older woman, like myself, and apparently, pretty doomsday, as a look of dread crosses her face as she takes my pulse. “Oh, boy, oh, boy,” she says as she tries it again. I came in to have my blood pressure checked, which turns out to be perfect, despite the low heart rate.
I show Deb that my Apple Watch says my heartbeat is 68.
“You’re heartbeat is NOT 68.”
“Will I be seeing the doctor then?”
“Oh boy, oh boy, yes you will.” Is she worried or pleased at this calamity that sits before her?
She takes a lot of notes on the computer; I imagine about how I’m about to keel over from Bradycardia. I never knew that word before Deb. It’s a condition where your heartbeat is abnormally low and may be caused by damage to your heart tissue from AGING or from a heart attack, or from certain drugs (two of which I take regularly.) Or, it can be caused by Deb, who can’t count heartbeats for 15 seconds and then multiply by four.
I looked online at what causes Bradycardia. Here is the short list:
- Older age. (YESSSSSSS.)
- High blood pressure. (No.)
- Smoking. (Former Smoker.)
- Heavy alcohol use. (Don’t drink.)
- Illegal drug use. (My doctor says two of the prescription drugs I take can cause the condition so legal drug use also.)
- Stress and anxiety. (YESSSSSSS. Fucking work.)
When the doctor comes in, she’s very, very nervous at my 32 reading.
“My watch says my heartbeat is in the 60s,” I say.
“Do you feel dizzy?” She asks
“No.”
She takes my pulse. “Yes, it’s in the 60s.”
But Deb, dear DEB, has put my overly cautious doctor on alert. I now have to wear a heart monitor for a week to see if I have any Bradycardia incidents. The doctor told me to go to the local hospital to have the monitor attached to my body, but the monitor came in the mail and the directions said that I (not me, but whoever receives it) can put it on themselves. What if I put the monitor on incorrectly, and I look like I’m Bradycardia-ing to death. Will I end up having heart surgery because of Deb’s ineptness and then because of my own?
Would serve me right, being such a bitch, um, excuse me, such a curmudgeon. Karma coming back to bite me in the ass and all that.
The Starbucks coffee seems to be waking me up finally. Maybe I should drink a gallon of the stuff the next time Deb tries to take my pulse.
