“Get outta here!”

—“Are you saying I shouldn’t sell my house and move out?”
I asked that to my doctor as I left my biannual physical.
“No; you’re fine,” he said. “But get rid of that blood-pressure monitor; it’s unreliable;” which is why we tested it.
“Your blood-pressure has been fine for years. It always is here, no matter what your at-home monitor says.”
“So are you saying I should just let you guys monitor my blood-pressure? That’s six months away.”
“You could get another monitor, but it too might lead you astray.”
With that I lifted the lid on an in-room trashcan, and dropped in my ancient monitor.
So end years of in-home monitoring. That monitor began rendering sky-high readings.
“Your nurse also suggested I had another dog in me. I thought Killian would be my last, but I just lost him to cancer, and I figured he was good for four or five more years.
She also asked me how my mood was. I miss my doggie = no one to talk to. But worse is feeling I’m at death’s door.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“Absolutely not!” I shouted, blasting her ear off.
“So glad I never started,” I added.
“But it’s hard getting out of bed when my balance is so awful, and in the mirror I see a little old man who grabs and leans on walls etc. to keep from falling.”
“How about a cane or a walking-stick?” My doctor asked.
“I tried both,” I said; “and they throw off my balance. I do better without.”
“You’re getting older,” he said. “Circulation to the part of your brain that controls balance drops off, so imbalance sets in as you age.
Just don’t move out yet, but get rid of that monitor.”
“And I’m looking for another dog, although I don’t know as I should. That’s another dog to walk, and spoil rotten. I certainly spoiled Killian rotten.”
Usually it’s “Get outta here! See me in six months.”
Not this time!