When I Fall

I have extremely low blood pressure. Most times, this is a good thing. My heart isn't the getting the same milage as other people's hearts, so it should last about another 60 years. Of course, I'll have completely lost my wits by that point and will be talking to house plants and think that George Bush is still president, but my heart will keep going. 

A few years back, when the kids were babies, I went to an Urgent Care clinic to get drugs for strep throat. I had both kids with me, because Steve was at work, and they were both hollering about missing dinner time. By the time I got into to the examination room, I had been waiting for an hour, and the kids and I were one hot mess. The nurse was amused that my blood pressure was still 80 over 100, even as the kids screamed on the top of their lungs. 

The problem is that if I let my blood pressure get too low, I pass out. I fainted for the first time when I was ten in the back of church on Sunday. The black dots got bigger and bigger. I woke up on the front steps of the church with a motherly woman putting my head below my legs. After a couple more faints in church, I learned two things. I learned that crowded, stuffy places made me swoon. I also learned that I could get out of many boring sermons by telling my mother that I was about to pass out.

Since then, I've passed out in many places. I've passed out in memorable places like the front row of a Kinks concert, inside CBGBs during a Yo Lo Tengo concert, in front of a Brazilian dance joint, and in less exciting places, like on the toilet at my Aunt's house. 

On Saturday, I added a new fainting location to the list. I was driving home from New York City, after meeting friends for a movie and dinner. Actually, I bolted out of the restaurant before ordering because I knew that I was getting sick. I just wanted to get home. That was mistake number twelve. I should have at least ordered a soda and eaten an appetizer. (Previoius mistakes included not eating lunch, taking a Claritin, and just being run down.) I knew that I was in trouble, because the traffic lights on the Westside Highway were glowing way too brightly. But I just wanted to get over the George Washington Bridge. That was my goal. Get over the bridge and then the Jersey people could help me more easily. 

There are two major arteries for traffic in Manhattan. On the East side, there's the FDR drive. The traffic goes a little faster on the FDR drive, but the road is full of bumps and pot holes. On a clear day without traffic, you can actually get a little air as you fly over those bumps. Dukes of Hazzard, Manhattan-style.

Jersey people always use the Westside Highway. The Westside highway is a patchwork of contruction projects dating back to honest graft of the 1920s. Parts of it look like a regular highway. Other parts, not so much. There's no shoulder to the road. It twists and turns. And it was here that I started seeing those black dots. 

I managed to make it to the 125th Street exit, which used to be a refuge of burned out, stolen vehicles, but it's fine these days. There's a trendy BBQ joint down the block. I limped to the side of the road and called Steve. He and the boys were ordering dinner in a restaurant. Again, a crisis interfered with their dinner time and they howled. He hauled them into the car, and they went to get me. Because traffic had gotten nasty by that point, it took them an hour to get me. In the meantime, I called and texted other family and friends who offered to come get me. 

I am a little pissed off at myself for not eating enough and passing out. But I am thankful that there are so many people in my life who catch me when I fall.