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High pressure front

February 28, 2011

This is a tale of two forms of pressure.

The first came from my lovely, kind cousin Ronna, who sent an e-mail with the following information: “Want to let you know, if you don’t write something today, you will have skipped the month of February.”

Obviously, that is not true, as I have written several blog entries in February that never made it from my cerebral cortex to my keyboard. But it was the call to action I needed.

The other high pressure apparently came from my heart, or the blood rushing through it. It was around the first of February that my doctor informed me that my blood pressure was up, for the second visit in a row.

And because my ego is just that porous, I was embarrassed. I teared up. This had to be my fault. After all, I’m overweight. Who did I think I was, to assume that once I conceived, I could actually carry this little child-in-the-making? Now I was going to kill my kid, and kill myself on top of it.

I might have overreacted a wee bit.

I looked it up on a blood pressure chart. My BP was on the road to high blood pressure, not there yet. Moreover, my OB informed me that he had 105-pound women with blood pressures that spiked once they were pregnant, and that returned to normal immediately after delivery. He also told me that there was not a connection between such early blood pressure issues and pre-eclampsia, one of the two terrors I had picked to accompany me through pregnancy.

So he stuck me on Labetalol, twice a day. More meds. My house looks like two 85-year-olds live in it. On my last visit to the OB, my blood pressure was completely back to normal. So I asked if I could stop taking the pills.

They laughed at me.

Fuckers.

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