Restaurant food has more salt than either one of us needs. Because of the extra salt, we need to keep drinking more water. And because of the extra water, we need to keep peeing even more than usual which is a bigger problem now for my husband since his BPH is getting worse.
I always confuse BPH with BHP. BHP is a stock symbol for BHP Billiton, Ltd., a multinational mining, metals, and petroleum company. BPH stands for Benign Prostatic Hyperplasma, or a growing prostate gland. Evidently, the only gland that keeps on growing as humans age is the male prostate gland, which could explain how the Patriarchs fathered children when they were hundreds of years old. BPH is not prostate cancer but I want a second opinion. Something is clearly wrong because my husband goes to the bathroom more than five times a night. He is tired during the day. He doesn’t want to drink because he doesn’t want to pee and the doctors have told him he needs to hydrate more.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks. I hold my breath.
My husband has a “when we are out, it doesn’t count rule,” that he clearly made up.
“I’ll have the sirloin burger,” he says.
“French fries or vegetables?” she asks nonchalantly.
“French fries,” he says. “What kind of soup do you have today?”
I am praying he won’t like the choices because that just adds to the salt content.
“I’ll have the chicken soup,” he says.
I spend two hours a week in the supermarkets, reading the salt content of each and every product. One meal out can undo a whole month of my home cooking.
“What?” my husband reads my mind. “It’s healthy,” he says.
I grew up with women who nagged their husband’s to death, thus, keeping them alive. I never wanted to become one of them. But I am desperate to keep my husband alive because I desperately do not want to be alone. And I desperately do not want to start over. Desperate people do desperate things. Now, I understand those women and I forgive them.
“Would you like to see the desert menu?” the waitress asks.
“Sure,” my husband says smiling.
“What?” he says to me after she leaves. “We’re eating out.”
He orders the chocolate pecan pie with chocolate chips. Of course, all the deserts are made with dairy products.
Who can blame him? Who wants to worry about the simple pleasures in life when you know exactly where you are heading?
I take comfort in the fact that I make three fish meals a week, do not buy red meat, only cook chicken or turkey breast, make soups, hide kale in any dish that I can, only buy fruit spread, never buy soda, and eliminate products that are high in fructose and corn syrup.
Now, I am trying to schedule in daily exercise routines.
Am I a wife or the head of a fine assisted living facility?
And after 60, isn’t it all in the genes (not jeans) anyway?
We walk back to the hotel.