Journal of a Living Lady #192

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

I have been married to a lovable hypochondriac for nearly 38 years. The human body has nine orifices and I am well acquainted with all of Buddy's. Every pain is surely cancer or a pending heart attack. I have taken his temperature, blood pressure, checked his tongue and throat, pricked is finger and performed dip stick checks. Most of the time I pat Buddy's head and assure him that he will  live.

Not that Buddy doesn't have aches and pains. He genuinely does. It is just that he grossly misreads the signals his body sends. Even a sneeze is a code red alert and off to the doctor he goes. Though he is in his early seventies, Buddy remarkably has never been seriously ill.

Unfortunately, this man of mine has been getting some close calls lately. A couple of weeks ago I hastily requested an ambulance when severe pain hit him pretty hard. He nearly passed out. I might have responded sooner, but I thought it was our parrot, Gracie, repeatedly calling my name again. This is a daily occurrence.

"Nanny.. Nanny......Nanny.............Nanny."

Slightly irritated from the interruption, I rose from my desk chair. IRS forms or not, I felt compelled to check out this name calling. Only two humans and an African Gray parrot ever call me Nanny.

  When I saw Gracie swinging up-side down in her cage, captivated in her own myopic world, I quickly hustled down the hall to check on Buddy. There he sat on the throne with his head in his trembling hands. He was bone-white, clammy, and more than a little peeved by my lack of immediate attention. He was too weak to fuss much, but mumbled for me to call 911. Within minutes, he was strapped on an ambulance stretcher and headed for the hospital.

Last night, while helping to put up table and chairs following a church supper, Buddy's heart rate suddenly sped up. His cardiac rhythm rivaled Secretariat's gallop to the finish line. My fingers gripped Buddy's wobbly wrist. His quivering pulse of 265 beats per minute was unnerving. My mind wondered if these rapid thumps I felt were the pounding hoof beats of the death angel's horse.

  Through the marvels of technology, Buddy's electrocardiogram was transferred from a heart monitor on his belt through the church telephone line to the doctor's monitoring service. The seemingly phlegmatic receptionist asked him to send another recording in sixty seconds. This time Buddy got an answering machine, "We are sorry, but due to the high volume of calls we are experiencing a delay." Buddy wasn't happy. Neither was I. Off to the emergency room we went, accompanied by concerned friends.

Not much more than an hour later we were all home again. Buddy's heart rhythm was back to normal. He would live, we hoped, for another day.

Tomorrow we have an appointment with the cardiologist. A pace-maker might be needed. For now, I will cease to tease about Buddy's hypochondria. For the first time in our married lives, he is scaring me.

 

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nancyk@alltel.net