I am monitoring my blood pressure on the instructions of my doctor. She has given me a little machine that you attach to your wrist. It has a cuff that inflates and a box with a digital reader - it reminds me somewhat of an old fashioned Dick Tracey wrist phone. I have doubts about the unit's accuracy. It not only gives me wild variations of reading but also returns an error message more often that I would expect in the binary world of digital technology. Still, I shall dutifully chart my progress and see if the Accupril tablets work. She spoke to me in stern terms about compliance and the consequences of not controlling my BP. Given that I have no desire to go pop just yet I'll do as I am told…make it a personal challenge even. I doubt I will return to triathlon any time soon but a fitness regime would probably be a good thing.
It was bit of an insight into my world view when the doc asked why I hadn't been taking my BP Pills? I could think of no better answer than "I am male." It didn't get me off the hook. When she struggled to find a word to describe the seriousness of the fact that my blood pressure was off the scale I helpfully proffered 'spectacular'. She laughed but told me she didn't think it was funny. But, as a blogger, I am used to an ambivalent audience. I guess I watched too much M.A.S.H. when I was a kid. Black humour about health comes easily.
In the next couple of days I'm off for some blood tests and will be awaiting my invitation from the public health sector to have a chest x-ray. I will post the result, maybe on a sub-blog, if I don't catch a superbug from the hospital in the process.
Apparently because my address is on Auckland's North Shore I am bound to use the vile, 3rd world death trap here, rather than the shiny new one across the bridge. I may have to move. A medical refugee.
(Avid readers…reader…of this blog will astutely notice that I have used this illustration before. It just seems to sum things up rather well.)
Now, if you will excuse me. I have work to do.