White Coat Syndrome!

The nurse led me back to the doctor’s office. It had been a few months since my previous visit.

Four months with little to no alcohol. Little to no caffeine. I’ve been exercising daily and have lost a little weight. I check my blood pressure once a day. It hovers around 115/75. I was coming to the doctor to see if I could kick my nasty habit of .5mg of Lisinopril.

It was a Friday morning. The sun was shining. I was sipping decaf coffee. Listened to Richard Buckner in the car on the way. Not a care in the world. Reminding myself to remain calm.

“My blood pressure is usually high at the doctor’s office,” I joked to the nurse. “So try to keep my calm.”

“I think we should get VR headsets,” he told me, “so you can pretend you’re on the beach.”

Not a bad idea, though I didn’t feel particularly not calm.

Then he took my blood pressure. 160/100.

What the hell?

***

“You probably have white coat syndrome,” the doctor told me when she came in.

“Add that to everything else I have,” I said.

The doctor laughed. I like her.

“We will just go with your readings at home,” she told me. “Ignore the ones here.”

We went over my bloodwork. My cholesterol was a little high. Not worthy of medication, but high.

“You want to cut down on salt. Get rid of process foods.”

“I know,” I told her, “but I like salt.”

“Do you like living?”

“I do.”

“Then cut down on salt.”

My doctor looked me over. She didn’t seem worried about this 43-year old body.

“So, am I dying?” I asked her.

“Everybody is dying, but so far it is just natural causes for you.”

Again, I like my doctor.

I’ll go back in April. Until then? I’ll continue avoiding caffeine, alcohol, and now salt I guess. And I’ll keep exercising. Trying to be healthy. But I think I’m going to stop freaking out about my blood pressure.

Easier said than done. I’m a little high-strung.

***

I’m convinced my blood pressure is connected to anxiety. Anxiety ran rampant this last year. A new job with new challenges. Moving my family to a new place. Starting another new life. All of that against the backdrop of the pandemic and what has been, at least for me, a relatively anxious couple of years. See: public discourse. Arcade Fire has a song called Age of Anxiety on their most recent album. That seems right to me. It’s been an anxious few years. And now I guess I might have white coat syndrome.

At my last visit, the doctor I like suggested I see a therapist. The line my Jewish father would say about eating his Jewish mother’s chicken soup when he was sick came to mind. What could it hurt?

One of my closest friends and mentors during my time in Pennsylvania is a psychotherapist. On top of being a professor. She’s also a genius. I asked her for advice in finding somebody here in Iowa. She gave me a list of names. I settled on a guy that was trained in psychoanalysis. I’ve gone a few times. I like this guy. Mostly, I spend an hour talking about work. Venting. Reminds me of the hours I’ve spent with so many mentors along the way, talking over a beer and trying to make sense of my experience.

Am I cured yet? I don’t think there’s anything to be cured of. Anxiety is a physiological response to the sorts of things I’ve been processing, though I would like to have a normal blood pressure reading at the doctor. I do like talking to this therapist, so I’ll keep going and see what happens. Again, what could it hurt?

43 year-old Sam. Add to my burden white coat syndrome. There’s worst things to have. I took my blood pressure later that afternoon, after getting back from the doctor’s. 107/74. Right as rain.