This conversation actually happened. As a humor blogger, I see the “funny” in it, but it also opened my eyes to one possibility that no one’s gonna take care of me when I’m old!
Indian Chief definition of orthostatic syncopate: Electrical malfunction when stand up, blood pressure drop like big ball in sky when night come, blood no travel to head, brain freak out like herd of buffalo, no air, pass-out like Princess Drinking Slut after long night in tee-pee.
First, I want to apologize to all my Indian readers for doing such a cliche impression, plus that picture of that Indian on the left is pretty cheesy, I realize it makes me look totally ignorant to the American Indian culture. To redeem myself a big “How” to all of you. Okay, I think that’s better.
Frankly, Chiefs make technical stuff sound fun, like all people with British accents are smart.
Moving on, (please read the rest in a British accent as that is how I’m writing it) this diagnosis was just another one of those “aging” things. Like cellulite dimples on non fatty areas like your calves, veins that are trying to escape from your legs or having to crack air into your vertabrae after standing or walking for upwards of 10 minutes.
Since finding out, I have not found myself suddenly unconscious. I know, jig time. Yesterday, I came uncomfortably close. I realized that putting a Fat Burn powder boost in an espresso/frozen yogurt smoothie is not the best way to even out your blood pressure. I know what you’re thinking: chromium picolinate, fro yo, and espresso… “that’s a heart healthy way to start the day, maybe you should chase it with a Red Bull and do a couple lines before going for a run.”
Don’t judge, I needed that fat burn boost to combat the calories in that one drink alone. Anywho, racy and overheated, I lied down on the floor and put my feet up on the wall… to get blood to my brain. Never fear, my son was around, so I knew I’d be in good hands.
Me: “Um, Jake, I think I might pass out”
Jake: Frantically, “I’m calling 911.”
Isn’t that cute?
Me: Calmly, “Don’t call 911. I mean if I’m standing and just fall over, call 911, but if I mention it might happen and it does… call Daddy and he’ll tell you what to do.”
Jake listened and absorbed the instructions as to his course of action. Then he looked at me on the floor, “Um, okay. Bye.” He said, as he zoomed out of the room. I then heard the chime of someone continuing a game on XBOX.
Me: “Uhh, Jake. JAKE. JAAAAKE” I screamed with all the energy left in me, as the TV was set a volume you would need if you were playing against someone across the street and they didn’t have an actual TV.
Me: “I hate to interrupt your game, but could you come back for just a sec?”
Jake: Pause button hit, “What’s up?”
Me: “A minute ago you were praying by my side and then ‘bye?’ You don’t even want to stick around for a few minutes and make sure I stay conscious? How would you even know if I passed out?”
Jake: “You would yell, like you just did.”
Me: “I feel like something’s been lost in translation here. You know what? Stay here for a few, the TV’s so loud I don’t know if you’d be able to hear me if I scream to inform you that I’m no longer awake.”
Jake: In the same matter of fact way he said ‘bye,’ “Okay.”
He then sat on the bed and asked me questions about calling 911 like, “Would they get mad if I called and then you woke up?” “How do they know where to go?” and “Does someone answer the phone or is it a machine?” Distracted by his own line of questioning he sat for another minute or two, hopped off the bed and said “Okay, bye.”
Well, there goes the retirement home.