Under Pressure

I saw on the news yesterday morning that the NHS are changing the way they test for blood pressure. Those suspected of having it will be attached to a rather bulky looking machine for 24 hours so that it tests their blood pressure as they go about their normal activities during the day. Apparently this is to reduce the cases of people just having temporary high blood pressure due to being anxious during the test. I can sympathise with this.

About 10 years ago I went to the Doctor’s to have my ears syringed by a rather surly looking nurse. It was a hot day and I’d come straight from work. After she had removed the grim contents of my aural passages she decided, apropos of nothing, that it would be a marvellous idea to test my blood pressure. At the time I’d never had this done before in my life so I was a little surprised and perturbed by this sudden turn of events.

She wheeled out the archaic looking blood pressure meter (called a Sphygmomanometer if you’re interested), attached the thick black strap to my arm and started pumping away. As it tightened on my arm I felt myself become a little nervous and my heartbeat quite naturally increased. She looked at the results and concluded that my blood pressure was ever-so-slightly higher than it should have been and she requested that I return the following week for a further test.

So a week later, on an even hotter day, I went back to the surgery. It was a Friday afternoon and again I’d come straight from work, dashed on to a bus, sat downstairs on an old double decker where the only available seats were at the back seemingly on top of the engine. Worse still the bus got caught in traffic so no cool air was coming in and I was melting considerably. This of course had the knock on effect of making me slightly late to my appointment and I burst into the surgery in a sweaty mess.

The nurse strapped me up again, started pumping, and concluded that I definitely had high blood pressure. She told me that I would have to see a Doctor as things were not looking good. She handed me a leaflet about how I needed to change my shameful and decadent lifestyle. 

As I was leaving she gave me some cheery words of medical wisdom, “Blood pressure is a silent killer”. I looked at her, horrified. She responded by cracking a thin smile and saying “Have a good weekend”.

Mortified, I left the surgery and drifted along the pavement whilst scanning the leaflet she had given me. It basically told me that I would have to change my ways or else I’d be brown bread.

I was bereft. My life was over. So I did what any other man would do when faced with the prospect of the Grim Reaper and I went to the pub.

The following week I visited the GP but this time I booked an appointment for first thing on a Monday morning. I wasn’t hot and sweaty this time as I hadn’t rushed straight from work and, as expected, my blood pressure was normal. The GP speculated that it was only high because of the external factors I’ve mentioned.

He sent me away with the reassurance that he didn’t expect me to drop down dead from a heart attack at any given moment. I was relieved but also annoyed that the nurse had dragged me back a couple of times and predicted my premature demise with such relish. 

So the moral of this tale is that if you’re told you have high blood pressure by a belligerent nurse then, until it’s properly checked out, take it with a pinch of salt. Well, not literally. That won’t help at all.