All together now

How time flies. When I turned 40 a little over two years ago, I was guardedly sanguine. “If the cliché is to be believed,” I wrote, “I will soon have a whole new life ahead of me.” I could not have said it sooner, or put it more ambiguously. Hypertension was not what I had in mind when I said that I looked forward to being surprised — although pain is as vivid a reminder as any of the wonder that is life. Sometimes appreciation comes at a price.

Oh, I had it coming, I did. Sometimes my mother wakes me up to tell me that So-and-so has died. Who? Doesn’t matter; if it has anything to do with smoking, I’m bound to hear about it. Once, in an attempt to visualize just how heavy a smoker I am, I kept every empty pack of cigarettes that I went through. I stopped after two weeks. From collecting the packs, I mean. It was that scary. The only surprise was that it caught me in the heart instead of my lungs, although I might still give my mother that satisfaction. But I hope not. For now I could count on some sympathy. She has a heart condition herself. With my father, that makes three of us. We are the Broken Hearts Club. Some medications we have in common. Hey Pa, can you spare some Pritor? I’m out. It’s just like bumming a smoke.

Not funny? Let’s talk about salt for a change. According to current dietary guidelines, you should consume no more than 2.3 grams of sodium per day. That’s equal to about a teaspoon of salt, and that’s if you don’t have high blood pressure — then you’re down to just 1.5 grams of sodium or 35% less salt. If you think quitting smoking’s easy, let’s see you stick to your daily sodium limit. That I have to do both is so perverse it’s almost funny. There’s even a Bisaya expression for my predicament: parat. It literally translates as salty. In plain English, I’m screwed.

But since I’m not into self-pity, I’ll spread the misery around instead. I’m in charge of the kitchen, remember? I anticipate resistance. Ma has to have ginamós with every meal. Well, until she figures out a way to ferment her beloved anchovies without salt, let her ponder the irony of having to give up that habit. Let there be grumbling. It’s not like a day goes by without Pa complaining that the food is not seasoned (i.e., salty) enough. (Oh, it is.) I expect wretchedness all around. Tough times, tough choices. Like my doctor says, “What good is medication if you’re intent on killing yourself?” A funny guy, my doctor. I hope you never need meet.