A little over a week ago, I went to my doctor's office to get a prescription refilled. She looked at my chart and told me she was going to take my blood pressure, since the last time I'd been in, it had been on the high side.
I had no memory of that, but sure. The doctor's office is such foreign territory for me. I generally do what I'm told.
She soon informed me, with slightly furrowed brow, that my blood pressure was even higher now, and that this was a cause for concern. She told me that before putting me on medication, she would have to "prove" that my blood pressure was high, and therefore I would have to buy a blood pressure monitor and take my blood pressure twice a day for two weeks.
What was all this? Medication? Twice a day what now?
Buried in confusion, I asked her what causes high blood pressure. It can be any number of things, she said. Sometimes it's genetics, she said, sometimes alcohol, sometimes stress.
Well, I've been incredibly stressed for the past seven months, I said. No reaction. Instead she handed me a sheet instructing me how to monitor my blood pressure, and then another one about adopting a low-sodium diet, saying that I needed to cut down on salt.
I still seemed to be in some kind of denial. "Oh, I don't eat that much salt," I said.
"Well, everyone can do better. And you're the type of person who has just a little and it affects you a lot." (How would she know that?) "Now, it's going to be painful at first, but eventually you won't even miss the salt and in fact everything else will taste salty."
I sort of went, "mm-hmm," but barely registered what she said, as I was thinking, "This cannot apply to me; I don't eat that much salt." After all, I'm not one of those people who adds salt to everything the minute it's served, or even particularly likes salty foods. I looked at the sheet. The first thing I read was, "When cooking: Put away the salt shaker and reduce or eliminate salt in cooking."
Um, what?
I'm going to admit something I hadn't realized about myself before: I am not all that good with doctors. I haven't had many health problems in my life, and I don't tend to go to the doctor's office when I get sick -- probably because my dad is a doctor, and as a child of a physician you're used to being told, "It's nothing." (Which it usually is. People who insist on getting antibiotics when they have a stuffy nose and a cough are ridiculous.) (Side note: I worry I'm going to die like Jim Henson someday.)
Therefore, when confronted with an actual health concern, I didn't react well. I got defensive. I was, in fact, downright rude.
"Don't cook with salt? At all?" I said. "I can't do that."
"Like I said, it'll be painful at first," she said, "but after a while you won't even notice the difference."
OK, hold it right there. I'm sorry, but I love food, and even though I don't use salt liberally, it still brings out the flavor in food, and don't tell me I wouldn't notice. I WOULD NOTICE. Could I stand to cut down? Sure. Is it important to be aware of the salt content in food? Absolutely. But "put away the salt shaker"? (Note: I don't actually use a salt shaker. I keep kosher salt in a tiny dish, and sprinkle it with my fingers.)
Cooking without salt was something I simply could not fathom. I tried envisioning making steak without salt. Roast chicken. Stews. How am I supposed to make Chinese food if I can't use soy sauce? I imagined "Top Chef" judge Tom Coliccho looking at me with scorn. No salt? It's not an exaggeration to say I saw everything I stood for slowly slipping away.
In the doctor's office, I was sputtering. "Do you cook?" I asked her. (This is the "I was rude" part.)
"I ... sure, I cook," she said. (My silent reaction: She probably doesn't cook. See, I was even rude on the inside.)
Mouth agape, I turned back to the sheet. The second thing I read: "When eating out at a restaurant: Request the food be prepared without salt...."
Whoa. I recoiled as if I'd touched something nasty. I would never sit down at Momofuku Ssam or Maialino and ask, "And could you please prepare my food without salt?" Oh, the humiliation. It wasn't going to happen. Therefore, I guess I ... gasp ... can't eat out.
Somewhere in all of this I pointed out to her that I was out of shape and knew it. I said it more than once. Let me see if I can break this down for you: I, who hates to work out, was eagerly, almost desperately offering to exercise rather than eliminate salt from my diet. (Her response: I wasn't overweight, so it didn't matter.) This surprised me. I would have thought that I'd have a harder time cutting fat from my diet than salt, but when faced with what cutting salt from my diet would entail -- becoming an old lady overnight, essentially -- I melted down.
Since then, I have not only been monitoring my blood pressure twice a day (with varying results), but I've also been thinking a lot about salt. It's true, I'd been ordering more takeout and buying more Trader Joe's prepared foods lately, since I haven't fully set up my Incredibly Shrinking Kitchen yet. Obviously that's a huge source of sodium. Bye-bye, Trader Joe's, I barely knew ye.
But after my initial defensive reaction, now I see salt everywhere. I went out for lunch, and though I prudently requested salad dressing on the side, we also got a burger, fries and onion rings. Blood pressure FAIL. That same night, I had dinner out, and there was not a single thing on the menu that I could have ordered without a lot of salt in it. I asked the bartender several questions about the salt content of menu items, and he seemed unconcerned about my dilemma. In fact, I could tell he was now looking at me as a problem diner. That's what I am now. I'm Sally, from "When Harry Met Sally," except instead of asking for everything on the side, I'm yammering on about salt.
Yesterday I went to see "Breaking Dawn," and my sister-in-law ordered a big bag of popcorn, with the requisite butter and salt on it. I love movie popcorn. Mo' butter, mo' better. She asked me to hold the bag for a second, and I cradled it, staring at the kernels as I forced myself to resist. Meanwhile, on-screen, Rosalie was gazing hungrily at Bella covered in blood, and she had to be forcibly dragged away. I sympathized.
"You need to stop obsessing," my mother told me. Well, this is what I do. I obsess. And that, I guess, is what my doctor doesn't know about me: Tell me matter-of-factly that something's wrong with me, and that my only recourse is to cut down on salt, then by God, I'm going to start obsessing about being the best salt-cutter-outer in the world. It's the A student in me. Of course now I'm also obsessing, and stressing, about how high my blood pressure is, and about wanting to improve on the results, which -- of course -- has only been driving my blood pressure steadily upward.
In the end I'll have to learn to balance my health concerns with an obsession that's driving me batty and probably decreasing my quality of life. If I eliminate salt from my diet, then maybe I'll be less likely to have a stroke, but how happy will I be eating nothing but bland foods? I tried cooking zucchini the other day with no salt and plenty of thyme. I took a bite. It tasted like baby food.
It looks like even my obsession may have an expiration date, though. Last night, after a week of asking "Is there salt in this?" about every dish mentioned or placed in front of me, I was at my brother's house (re)watching "Bridesmaids." My brother handed me a bowl of freshly popped popcorn. "Is there salt in this?" I asked. Yes, he said, there's some salt. I paused and stared down at the bowl, then popped a kernel in my mouth. It was delicious.
