Dispatches from a Medical Piece…

of Kosher Meat.

If you’re been following the WW J blog you may recall the “Health is our greatest wealth” post. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2023/12/health-is-our-greatest-wealth.html

In the blog I described a half year of medical discontent. I went from aging incrementally to seemingly aging exponentially. With this in mind, I reckoned it was time to score a nearby general practitioner or now  what’s called a primary care provider. It was time to go local for my yearly blood pressure medicine supply and occasional specialist referrals. 

In Durango, I quickly discovered you don’t select docs as much as settle for one. Most docs had full case loads and weren’t accepting new patients. One doc said he wasn’t taking patients over 65 years of age. I guess if I wanted to press the issue, I could have sued him for age discrimination.

I booked an appointment months in advance for an internist chosen for me by the scheduling folks. When that morning arrived, I was ushered into exam room where a nurse took my vital signs. 

Now my medical saga begins. 

I’m the type of guy whose blood pressure begins to spike just by seeing a BP cuff. Hypertension runs deep in the Sambur clan. As a firefighter/EMT I saw many a patient suddenly afflicted by a stroke caused by high blood pressure. Having a CVA (cardiovascular accident) was a club I didn’t want to join. Of my medical fears, strokes rate in the cosmos on my list. So of course my BP was high.

When the dowdy 40-something year old Doc appeared it was like two ambulances (with lights and sirens on) passing in the night. My primary concern was getting another year supply of BP meds. Her concerns was for a generic almost seventy year old male patient. It went something like this.

“I see you haven’t had a colonoscopy since 2008. Colon cancer is on the rise, ya know.” 

She didn’t ask me about my rainbow colored diet consisting of mostly fruits/vegetables, with a lean protein tossed in for good measure. I consider the chance of me getting colon cancer to be on the low end. She pressed the issue a bit more. I came close to telling her to mind her own colon.

Next she lit on vitamin D.

I answered. “Vitamin D? Isn’t that the sunshine vitamin?” Saying this as I pulled up my sleeve exposing my 365 day a year mahogany tan. 

“Well, the sun is less effective for vitamin D production the further from the equator you get.” 

She didn’t ask about the  D supplements I take each morning either. Vitamin D deficiency is low on my worry list too.

When she asked about my sleep pattern, I honestly chirped, “Lousy. Apparently my prostate has grown so large the US. Postal Service issued a Zip Code for my organ. I wake up often to go potty.”

She didn’t laugh at my attempt at prostate humor.

“Well! It might be your sleep is off because of the altitude. You might be experiencing sleep apnea. Durango is 7000 feet in altitude, you know.”

I corrected her. “No, it’s 6512 feet.” 

I didn’t bother to tell her about the great sleeps I’ve had while camping at 11,500 to 12,000 feet. Far, far away from the Texan tourists below me. 

Eventually she decided to retake my BP. “Whew! It’s higher than before. I’ll need more readings before I give you another BP meds prescription. Get a cuff at Walgreens and start taking your own readings three times per day.”

I held my tongue about her nudging me about medical issues which were a low concern to me while ignoring the purpose of my visit. To replenish my supply of BP meds. In essence, I left the office thinking she was holding my meds hostage.

Hmmm! That office visit didn’t go well. Essentially she planted a tiny Redwood seed of BP/stroke fear and angst in me. Over the course of a few days it sprouted and achieved top ten tallest Redwoods in the world 🌎 status. Each time I took my BP it was high. I might as well have been pounding bamboo shoots beneath my fingernails.i wasn’t doing myself any favors. I decided to go the medical ignorance is bliss route. I pitched the BP cuff into a closet. 

But yet I still didn’t feel right. I was nervous and anxious. It was the weekend so the med clinic of my discontent was closed. I found an Urgent Care for a virtual visit! Promptly on Sunday at 10 am, I had my first and hopefully last FaceTime doctor’s visit. 

He was a young man with nice manners and a dude beard. He asked a few questions and told me to retake my BP again. Of course it was high. He wrote a new prescription before we disconnected. A minute later he called back. Apparently the medical malpractice alarm went off for him. He was probably nervous and anxious. The doctor’s order was direct. “Go to an ER NOW!” He specified one nearby and told me he’d call ahead. He didn’t. 

When I arrived, the first words I heard from a receptionist behind a plate glass window was this. “You know this is an ER? This will be an expensive visit. Are you aware of that?” 

Nice bedside manner which of course did wonders for relaxing me. NOT! 

I filled out the paperwork before being admitted. There I semi-reclined for two hours with an EKG monitor attached to my chest. Results? no big deal. Blood was drawn for lab work. Results? no big deal. A Doctor darted in and out of the room. Mostly out.

All this commotion while being nagged by a hardened ER nurse. 

“You might want to stop salting your food.” I gave her my “Duh!” Look.

“You shouldn’t drink Gatorade either. It’s high in sodium.” That warranted a double Duh look. 

Once the ordeal was over, the Doc wrote me a prescription for my original BP meds for 15 days. Durango docs are sure chintzy when it comes to prescribing long term meds. My total out of pocket cost? $1111.00. Ouch. That hurt.

On Monday am, I still wasn’t feeling right. Then my phone went ballistic on text messages from the virtual doc and the high priced ER. “If you’re not OK, call your primary care provider.” Talk about passing the buck.

However the dowdy Doc was booked until Thursday. I decided to go to the clinic just the same. I was pretty stressed. I spoke to a nice receptionist. “I was here last week. My blood pressure is still high. I’d like to see a doctor please.” 

With those words of medical desire, I was quickly led into an exam room where once again a nurse took my BP. Still high. 

Then I said, “I’m scared. I don’t want to have a stroke. Please help me.” Then I lost it. I started to weep. 

It wasn’t just my high blood pressure which created this dramatic moment. It was my obsession with my whole medical and mental Megillah.

A) The hope that the four congealed chopped chicken liver injections into my arthritic knee would provide the relief I desired to get me through the spring, summer and fall of my high octane activity seasons. What I refer to as my calendar time to thrive.

B) The memory of a recent dehydration caused almost fainting episode on a hike. This time within  sight of my Subaru. I sat down before I fell down, finished off the rest of my Nalgene bottle and walked away like nothing happened. Except the memory.

C) The possibility of a medical out-patient procedure to reduce my Alaska sized prostate to a more manageable Texas sized one. The Doctor assured me the procedure would “improve your quality of life.” Meaning? The chance that I could sleep many hours in a row instead of my present minutes in a row. A true miracle. 

D) Lastly but hardly the least, after nearly five years of residency in Durango, I still feel isolated and alone here. My dream of meeting a possible girlfriend/wife, feeling a sense of community or simply knowing a few Happy Hour buddies to schmooze with has evaded me. This makes all the above health issues worse since I lack a local to share my Kosher whine with. I have no one to vent to. No bueno. The aging process is rough enough, going it alone is the pits. 

A few hours later I saw another Doctor. He’s youngish, fit and possesses a military bearing. (There’s a reason for that. He graduated from the US Army Medical School). He listened to my BP worries, wrote me a prescription for another BP med and wished me “Good Luck!” There was no talk about my colon. I guess I found my new GP. He advertises on Facebook too. 

Throughout these weird weeks of seeing or speaking to six different physicians and being jabbed multiple times, I heard a voice inside my head. “Jeffy! You have to be your own doctor.” Yes. Those words of wisdom were from my father Sid. 

After the last office visit was done, the last blood sample taken and another medical bill paid; I loaded Sanctuary One for a nine day campout in Utah. There I luxuriated in the silence, the solitude, the beauty, the hiking, the cold beers and two books to relax and recover.

Turns out Sid Sambur was probably the best Doctor I ever had.