Let's Get Physical

My recent physical exam prompted the following composition.

I went to the doctor recently for my annual physical which I schedule every three years or so. I arrived at the appointed time, checked in with the pleasant looking gray-haired lady behind the glass, who informed me: “We have a new computer system, so please complete and sign these multiple pages; and I need your insurance card, please?” Without fail, every time I come here, I fill out the same paperwork and hand her the same insurance card as I did the last time, and the time before that. I was tempted this time to check off something unlikely in my medical history, like “abnormal PAP smears.” I bet if I came back tomorrow for a follow-up appointment, she’d hand me the same forms on the same clipboard and ask for the same insurance card.

“But I filled these out yesterday, and you took a copy of my card. Do you change your computer system daily?”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but we need to make sure our records are current.” I suppose in 24 hours I could have changed jobs, changed insurance companies, developed and recovered from cancer, and divorced and remarried. Helluva day, though!

In this age of express medical care, a complete physical exam takes not much longer than a fill-up at the gas station. From when Dr. J. summoned me with the endearing greeting “You owe me some urine,” – to which I replied, “I’m fine, thanks, yourself?” – until he dismissed me, the elapsed time was 28 minutes. You can now get a physical on your lunch break and still have time for lunch.

For half of the 28 minutes I waited for him in the examining room clad in my boxers and socks, after making the urine deposit he so dearly sought. Three or four times I heard his rampaging footsteps approaching and figured, “Here he comes, this is it.” But he’d then rampage in the other direction. I was glad, though: I needed some time for the huge urine stain on my sky-blue boxers to dry; at age 55 these things happen.

Finally the door opened, and the handsome, white-coated Dr. J. burst in and ordered: “Hop on the scale. Let’s do this.” Fortunately, the stain had dried so I could stand without acute embarrassment. I checked in at 161 pounds, which on my five foot nine frame isn’t bad, but more than I’d like. “Weight looks good. So, have you been on vacation already, or is that still to come?”

“Well . . .”

“Okay, back here, take a seat.” Dr. J. is the fastest talker this side of a cattle auctioneer, whereas I speak at the laborious pace of Henry Kissinger. As he took my blood pressure and felt me up all over and put me through the deep breathing routine, he kept asking questions that I had no opportunity to answer. I didn’t mind, though; it was kind of like “doctor rap,” although Dr. J. ain’t no Dr. Dre, know what I’m sayin’?

So far, so good: weight okay, blood pressure perfect; whatever he saw in my ears and down my throat didn’t alarm him. What’s left? Take some blood, hook me up to the EKG machine, ram a fist up my ass. Oops, pardon me . . . perform a digital rectal exam to check the prostate. And so he did, and as always, how thrilling it was. My biggest fear with this exam is not the violation of sacred space, but that I might shit my brains out in the process. I like Dr. J.’s approach: quick, efficient, in and out real fast; no time to tense up and, thankfully, poop-free. Oh, and he felt a small and soft prostate; in this case, small and soft is good.

One standard selection from physical exams of yore – the “cough while your testicles are being squeezed” number – was omitted from the program. Such a pity; maybe next year.

Since I’m past 50, he always checks when or if I had that loveliest of medical procedures: the colonoscopy. He punched me up on his laptop which presumably was loaded with the new computer system, and saw that I passed that particular test in May, 2004. Doing some quick math, I calculated that next year will be five years; was I to do it again then or in 10 years? He didn’t say; I didn’t ask.

In a few days they’ll call me with the blood work results. Last time my cholesterol tipped the scale moderately, but nothing else of note. I’ve cut back my alcohol consumption over the last year, so hopefully I have more blood and less poison flowing through my veins. I can think of nothing more agonizing than waiting for the results of a true life-or-death test, like a tumor biopsy. It’s tough to whistle a happy tune while a pathologist is examining a piece of your insides through his scope, looking for evidence of “abnormal” cells that might just forecast a premature end to your life.

I’ve been blessed with good health throughout my life. When I see or hear of people my age or younger dropping dead of heart attacks, getting one cancer or another, or having some other chronic illness or debilitating condition, I wonder why them and not me, or someone close to me? I’m at the age now where shit happens, and I don’t mean as the by-product of a digital prostate exam. I mean real serious shit, like disease and death.

Henceforth, I’ll have my annual physical annually, and when handed the same medical forms to complete, I’ll say: “Yes, Mam, I’d be happy to fill out these same forms containing the same information I provided last year. And, of course, here is the same insurance card that you have on file.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“No, no, no, thank you for looking after my health. Please pass the clipboard?”