A month or so ago, Will agreed to go the doctor—he’d not been in god knows how long, so he was way overdue.
Turns out, he’s in great shape, except his blood pressure is high. So, the doc prescribed Lisinopril and told him to check his blood pressure daily.
Which he did once.
Apparently, he didn’t hear the “ly” part of the word “daily.”
When I brought this up to him, he said it was because we only had a wrist monitor, which the doctor had said are not particularly accurate. I said, “I’ve got a proper arm cuff-type monitor, but it’s buried in a box somewhere in a closet.”
Lo and behold, he found it.
Which brings me to this morning. As we were sitting in bed, drinking coffee, and watching the Princess and the Oaf, I looked across the room, spied the BP monitor, and said, “Hey, you should take your blood pressure.”
And he said, “I’ll take mine if you take yours.” (Yes, I know it sounds like a deranged, middle-aged version of “playing doctor.”)
So I agreed and he popped up, rescued the monitor from its perch, wrapped the cuff around my arm (with some difficulty as I was jerking my arm around trying to push the dog off of me), and he pressed the “start” button.
Will watched the numbers flashing by on the monitor as the cuff tightened, remarking, “Ooooh, yours is going to be good.” And it was. 113 over something or other.
And weirdly, I felt really proud of that. Like I’d really accomplished something. Worked hard at it, you know? (We’ve not been out in a while…social distancing, you know.)
He pulled the cuff off of me and wrapped it around his arm, patting down the Velcro strip to hold it in place. Just as he was about to press the button to start the monitor, I said, “Ooh, I bet my reading is better than yours.”
He looked at me with a greedy gleam in his eye and said, “Want to make it interesting?”
Because this is what we’ve been reduced to.
Betting on our blood pressure.
The good news is I won 10 bucks.
Until next time, cheers.
