Rewind to March 2010. Jim goes for his every-other-year DOT physical (his ONLY medical/health regiment, mind you, and that's only because it's state-mandated) and learns that his blood pressure is slightly elevated. Not medicine-required elevated. Just a smidge high.
But it FREAKS him out.
And it's the flap of the butterfly wing that causes the tsunami, or however that story goes.
Lucky for both of us, Jim can be kind of single-minded, focused and driven when he decides to be. He makes an appointment with his family physician because he wants to take care of this "thing."
I ride along and sit in the waiting room; not really too worried about the whole deal. Sure, he's developed quite a belly these past few years. But because of the way he's built, he hides it pretty well. Most of you know he's kind of compact (not short, I didn't say short) in the first place and built like "an little angus bull" according to a story of his dad's that he retells every so often. But that's part of being 40-something and not too surprising, I thought. He's over-reacting a bit.
And, who am I to talk? I've packed on much more and he never says a thing. Never complains. Tells me I'm beautiful. Doesn't understand when I push his hand away from what I've not-so-lovingly named "my chunk". So, while I'm curious what this "fix" might be, I'm not all that excited about it.
The appointment takes forever. So long, in fact, that I start to get worried. Did they find something bad? Is his heart making funny gyrations? Was something else wrong?
He emerges from the inner sanctum of the clinic with a big smile on his face and three pieces of paper in his hand.
And our whole world changed.
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