White Coat Magic Mattress

I have white coat syndrome. I contracted it at my doctor’s office, and I got it from my doctor. 

And now I cannot convince my heart—run by my brain—that it is not going to be stabbed, poked, probed, burned, drained, cut, stitched, or beaten about the head and neck. 

Okay, I made that last bit up because hearts don’t have heads and necks, only the brains that run them do.

Over the years, my heart—run by my brain—knows that when someone says, “Expect a little pinch” what they’re really saying is “here comes the pain killer that’s going to burn like a boiling lava lake to dull the pain of the slicing knife.” 

My heart—run by my brain—calls B.S.

And now it, my heart—run by my brain—calling B.S., pumps up my blood pressure like a dollar store pumps up helium balloons for a buck. 

My doctor is convinced I have high blood pressure. I don’t. I have a brain that can’t lie to my heart any more. My doctor—convinced of the high blood pressure, cholesterol choked artery theory—makes me monitor my blood pressure at home for two weeks after I come close to stroking out in her office. 

It’s all good; no white coats at home. In fact, when I lay down on my magic mattress at night, my blood pressure is so low, I could be just this side of dead, which, in its own way could be a problem.

Thus, proving the importance of purchasing a decent mattress. 

At the end of the latest health crisis/pandemonium, I made Sherwood buy me a new mattress. Stuck at home, courting more than a few conspiracy theories, and napping on a daily basis, I said, “I refuse to sleep on a mattress with the fluff and heft of a grilled cheese sandwich.”

At the store and refusing to look at price tags, I flopped up on every mattress in the whole darned place, I looked at the saleslady and said, “This one. It’s the most expensive one in the place, isn’t it?”

With a greedy gleam, she nodded. 

“Wrap it up,” I said.

“I love this mattress, babe,” I said to my darling of forty-plus years.

“You should. It’s the same price as a down payment on a first class go-cart.”

“I love it so much I want it to line my coffin.”

“It’s too big.”

“I give you permission to cut it down to fit.”

“That’s morbid.”

“I told you that this is the mattress we’ll probably die on.” 

Later, after the last mattress we’ll probably die on was delivered and the blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm into two bloodless pieces, he asked, “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Non-existent!”

“Then our work here is done.”

I sunk even further into the ever cool, positive ion charged, body hugging, blood pressure reducing magic that is a decent mattress. 

Now if I can only drag my marvelous, decent, magical mattress to my next check-up.

Linda (Heart Health) Zern