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For Sunday, April 13, 2008 774 words
Run, fat boy, run
Went to see my doctor today. Got scolded, soundly. I asked him to scold me. I need that. I explained that I am more motivated to be healthy when my doctor gives me orders.
I had a sore throat. Thought it might be strep. I babysat my 3-year-old grandson, Jack, last Saturday, and we shared an orange juice. Got a call two days ago from his father, Chad.
“Dude. If you get a sore throat in the next few days it’s probably strep. We all have it. Jack has lemons hanging in the back of his throat.”
Yesterday, I got a sore throat. This morning, Thursday, it was worse. I called the Advice Nurse at 5 a.m. – no waiting. She scheduled me for a same-day appointment with my old doctor buddy, Neil Watter. I just got home.
Neil took my temperature, blood pressure, and gave me a quick exam. He concluded that it was probably not strep, just a run-of-the-mill sore throat. He did a swab and sent it to the lab to be sure, but he had strong doubts.
I started to get up. He said, “Hold on. I want to talk to you about your blood pressure. It’s high and you don’t take any medication for it.”
“Eh, yeah, Doc, I know. I am doing my best to avoid the pills.”
“Well,” he said, squinting at his computer screen, “your best isn’t good enough. You have the same weight and blood pressure you had last year.”
“Eh, that’s good, right? I’m maintaining a plateau.”
He shook his head and gave me a big white-bearded smile. “You promised me you were going to drop 20 pounds and modify your diet.”
“You’re right, Neil. I confess. I blew it. I spent the last six months sitting at computers and dinner tables and theaters.”
“So, should I order up the pills?”
“No, Neil, please, give me one more chance. Didn’t you read my recent column. This summer is Camping Summer. I intend to do a lot of hiking and exercise.”
“Steve. I don’t read your column. I live in Napa.”
“OK. Well, I do intend to eat better and exercise more. Please don’t give me the pills. Instead, threaten me, Neil. Give me a deadline. Give me a goal. I do better when I’m under doctor’s orders.”
He swiveled his chair away from his computer to face me. He said, with his hands on his knees, “All right. I’ll give you one more chance. You have until August to drop 15 to 20 pounds. I also want to see a drop in your blood pressure. Otherwise, the pills!”
“Arg. Not the pills. I’ll do it. I promise. I’ll even alert the media. I’ll let the whole town know. Then if I fail I’ll be publically humiliated. That might push me.”
“Hmm. I’m also prescribing a diet.”
“Ah. Rats. I suck at diets.”
“Too bad. You’re doing it. It’s called the DASH diet. ‘Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension’. I’ll print it out. You can start today. It’s all about fruits and vegetables and whole grains.”
“Oh, geez. I eat that stuff now. It hasn’t helped. I guess I need to eat a whole lot more if I want to lose weight, huh?”
“Go ahead. Crack jokes.”
“All right, I’ll do it. Well, I’ve got to go. Bye, Neil.”
“Hold on. Not so fast. As long as I have you here. You’re past due for a colonoscopy, and a blood sample, and a physical, and a stool sample. And how is your diastasis recti? It’s been 10 years.”
“Arg. You mean my Pregnant Woman’s Disease? My busted gut? I confess. It hurts, Neil, ever since I pushed that wheelbarrow of wet cement up the hill in 1998. It hurts when I run, sit up, sweep, rake, hoe in the garden. Maybe that’s why I’m overweight?”
“Maybe. You know surgery is the only cure. We’d sew a Gortex patch over it. You’d be laid up for a few weeks.”
“Yes. I need to do that before I retire and my benefits crumble. But I wouldn’t want to do it with all this excess weight around my middle. I’d have to lose 15 to 20 pounds first. Hey, wait a minute. You’re thinking what I’m thinking. If I lose the weight, I could maybe have the surgery this fall.” He nodded. “Now, there is a motivation.”
“I’ll enter that request into your records,” he said. “It’s all dependent on you losing the weight and lowering the blood pressure. If you fail, you keep your pregnant woman’s disease another year, and you get the pills.”
“I shall not fail.”
Run, fat boy, run
Went to see my doctor today. Got scolded, soundly. I asked him to scold me. I need that. I explained that I am more motivated to be healthy when my doctor gives me orders.
I had a sore throat. Thought it might be strep. I babysat my 3-year-old grandson, Jack, last Saturday, and we shared an orange juice. Got a call two days ago from his father, Chad.
“Dude. If you get a sore throat in the next few days it’s probably strep. We all have it. Jack has lemons hanging in the back of his throat.”
Yesterday, I got a sore throat. This morning, Thursday, it was worse. I called the Advice Nurse at 5 a.m. – no waiting. She scheduled me for a same-day appointment with my old doctor buddy, Neil Watter. I just got home.
Neil took my temperature, blood pressure, and gave me a quick exam. He concluded that it was probably not strep, just a run-of-the-mill sore throat. He did a swab and sent it to the lab to be sure, but he had strong doubts.
I started to get up. He said, “Hold on. I want to talk to you about your blood pressure. It’s high and you don’t take any medication for it.”
“Eh, yeah, Doc, I know. I am doing my best to avoid the pills.”
“Well,” he said, squinting at his computer screen, “your best isn’t good enough. You have the same weight and blood pressure you had last year.”
“Eh, that’s good, right? I’m maintaining a plateau.”
He shook his head and gave me a big white-bearded smile. “You promised me you were going to drop 20 pounds and modify your diet.”
“You’re right, Neil. I confess. I blew it. I spent the last six months sitting at computers and dinner tables and theaters.”
“So, should I order up the pills?”
“No, Neil, please, give me one more chance. Didn’t you read my recent column. This summer is Camping Summer. I intend to do a lot of hiking and exercise.”
“Steve. I don’t read your column. I live in Napa.”
“OK. Well, I do intend to eat better and exercise more. Please don’t give me the pills. Instead, threaten me, Neil. Give me a deadline. Give me a goal. I do better when I’m under doctor’s orders.”
He swiveled his chair away from his computer to face me. He said, with his hands on his knees, “All right. I’ll give you one more chance. You have until August to drop 15 to 20 pounds. I also want to see a drop in your blood pressure. Otherwise, the pills!”
“Arg. Not the pills. I’ll do it. I promise. I’ll even alert the media. I’ll let the whole town know. Then if I fail I’ll be publically humiliated. That might push me.”
“Hmm. I’m also prescribing a diet.”
“Ah. Rats. I suck at diets.”
“Too bad. You’re doing it. It’s called the DASH diet. ‘Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension’. I’ll print it out. You can start today. It’s all about fruits and vegetables and whole grains.”
“Oh, geez. I eat that stuff now. It hasn’t helped. I guess I need to eat a whole lot more if I want to lose weight, huh?”
“Go ahead. Crack jokes.”
“All right, I’ll do it. Well, I’ve got to go. Bye, Neil.”
“Hold on. Not so fast. As long as I have you here. You’re past due for a colonoscopy, and a blood sample, and a physical, and a stool sample. And how is your diastasis recti? It’s been 10 years.”
“Arg. You mean my Pregnant Woman’s Disease? My busted gut? I confess. It hurts, Neil, ever since I pushed that wheelbarrow of wet cement up the hill in 1998. It hurts when I run, sit up, sweep, rake, hoe in the garden. Maybe that’s why I’m overweight?”
“Maybe. You know surgery is the only cure. We’d sew a Gortex patch over it. You’d be laid up for a few weeks.”
“Yes. I need to do that before I retire and my benefits crumble. But I wouldn’t want to do it with all this excess weight around my middle. I’d have to lose 15 to 20 pounds first. Hey, wait a minute. You’re thinking what I’m thinking. If I lose the weight, I could maybe have the surgery this fall.” He nodded. “Now, there is a motivation.”
“I’ll enter that request into your records,” he said. “It’s all dependent on you losing the weight and lowering the blood pressure. If you fail, you keep your pregnant woman’s disease another year, and you get the pills.”
“I shall not fail.”
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