After a lengthy attempt to lower the quality of my life, hypertension died last week. It was 1 and a half.

Hypertension was declared dead in an email I received from my doctor. “Great news. You don’t need medications now. This was a good ‘scare’, so you will have a healthy lifestyle now!” she wrote.

It is survived by the half empty boxes of blood pressure medication scattered around my apartment: 30 mg of Adalat, 12.5 mg of Carvedilol and 5 mg of a generic beta blocker.

I met with a doctor in Beijing for a follow-up checkup earlier this year.

Hypertension was born in my body in January 2012, after a doctor in the Philippines discovered my blood pressure was dangerously high following a severe bout of lightheadedness. Its interests included wrecking havoc on my body, including heart palpitations and anxiety attacks.

Hypertension was preceded in death by a brief addiction to cigarettes I had in my teens and a weakness for pretty much anything salty and fried.

Expressions of sympathy may take the form of congratulating me on losing 20 pounds, cutting back on alcohol and running sometimes as much 20 miles a week.

Friends may call, text or tweet me between the hours of 1 and 5 pm, when I am usually doing nothing more than watching Harlem Shake videos on YouTube.