Pressure turns out to be just too much

It's two weeks ago, and school is just out, and I'm still so reeling from the freedom I haven't even had a chance to realize how poor I'll be for the next few months, when the phone rings. It is a young woman from the hospital, telling me my doctor has submitted my name to them as a possible candidate for a blood pressure research study they're doing, which they'd pay me $150 for, and would I be interested in hearing about it?

Well, sure, the money would be nice, but the fact that my doctor has recommended me for this study without telling me that I am, perhaps, in danger of imminent Death-by-Blood-Pressure (or DBP, as those of us in the walking-time-bomb industry like to call it) has raised said blood pressure alarmingly, so when I say yes, it's not just for profit.

I fit into the age range (none of your business), the health range, the availability range and the medication range, so after hearing what's involved and required on my part -- and having no other immediate commitments beyond sitting around worrying about my blood pressure -- I am admitted into the study. My first visit is that very day.

If you live here in central North Carolina, you already know that the summer heat can be so hideous that folks will routinely volunteer to be human lab rats in an unheated "research facility" in Alaska rather than stay here from June through August. If you don't live in North Carolina, you'll just have to believe me. I'd send you pictures, but that would mean going outside.

Anyway, it's about 147 degrees, and I forget to take that into consideration when I accept the study parameters. I drive to the parking garage across from the hospital, parking in a fortuitous space about 18 feet from the elevator, but by the time I close the car door, my clothes and my body are as one, my shoes are squishing, and my hair is a sopping mass of frizz, which, trust me, isn't as pretty as you'd think.

By the time I make the half-mile trek to the hospital and slog up to the receptionist desk on the third floor to meet my study coordinator, it's clear from the look of horror on her face that she's seriously considering exiting the building at a fast clip and going into another line of work.

At the last minute, however, she resolves to stay, and we meet, we talk, we fill out papers ... we hydrate. During all of this, she also is taking my blood pressure, and I notice that she's taking it quite a bit. Nine times, in fact, one right after another, using two different machines.

Finally, she puts a blood pressure cuff on my arm and hooks its tube to a little box the size of a Walkman -- which compares to an iPod the same way a tyrannosaurus compares to turtle -- that hangs at my side by a cross-shoulder belt like the old safety patrol belt I wore in elementary school. I thought it was really cool back then ... now, not so much. I have to wear this for 24 hours straight. No taking it off to sleep, to swim, or to shower -- much to the consternation of my friends.

With all this extra gear hanging off me, I know that walking all the way back to the parking garage is going to be a huge delight, so I decide to stand outside and wait for the shuttle, which is like a golf cart for six, with a roof to keep folks out of the sun somewhat. I am so relieved when it pulls up promptly, and I climb aboard on the very last seat, facing backward.

On its first bounce over a speed bump in the hospital driveway, I spring upward and conk the top of my head on the roof, which, besides causing pain, causes my Bp Walkman device to begin beeping, startling me and the rest of the passengers, who have no idea what this contraption is -- from the looks on their faces, they all assume I'm having some sort of medical "episode." I apologize profusely while trying to stop it or turn it off, at the same time trying to keep my purse from leaping overboard, as well.

Then, as the shuttle begins the long climb into the parking garage, we can all hear it slowing ... slowing ... slooowwwing to a stop.

"We're out of batteries!" calls the driver cheerfully. "You'll all have to walk on up, and I'll pick you back up on level 3!" Level 3 is 18 feet from my car. And, the Walkman won't quit beeping.

I never had high blood pressure until this study -- but, no one will believe that.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at v.wentz@yahoo.com.