We’re having our annual medicals next week and I’m trying to meditate away my anxiety.
John and I are both in great shape, with nothing to complain about. But the prospect of a check-up always makes us aware of Things That Could Go Wrong.
When we were younger, physicals took no time at all. You put an x beside all the items in the NO column – no serious illnesses; no operations; no palpitations or chest pain; no unusual bleeding – and the doctor examined your eyes, ears, throat, reflexes, and added a chest thump for good measure.
It’s different now. Our bodies have aged. Bits are shrivelling or falling off. And the doctor wants detailed information about bowels, bladders, breathing, sex life. Meanwhile, I want tips on memory retention.
Fortunately we have a wonderful GP. He’s the perfect age: halfway between adolescence and obsolescence (and, by the way, is it just my imagination or are medical schools now conferring degrees on 12 year olds?); and he’s prepared to sign an affidavit swearing he won’t retire until John and I are dead.
That’s because we’re the perfect medically-informed patients. John’s a doctor’s son – okay, full disclosure, his father was an obstetrician, but apart from a critical organ or two, what’s the difference? – and I like surfing the web, picking up nuggets of ailments, hoping to find a noteworthy but benign condition to call my own.
This on-line research also allows me to suggest diagnoses to the doctor, and to offer sage advice on prescriptions or tests he might like to send us for.
“What’s on your list today?” he usually asks as he enters the examining room. “And what have you decided we should do about it?”
He’s very appreciative of my para-medical knowledge, and is always prepared to make a good case for himself, should his professional opinion differ from mine.
Occasionally I’ll phone his assistant just to check on viruses and bacteria currently popular in our community. I like to be prepared.
“Hi, Katie. Anyone coming in complaining of headaches this week?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“How about upset tummies?”
“Nope.”
“Fever?”
“Nope.”
I move into more obscure territory: “Stiff necks? Breathing issues? Giddy spells? Tiny skin haemorrhages?”
“Nope,” says Katie, oath-bound to secrecy.
Nothing leaves me feeling healthier than these virtual visits to the clinic: it’s such a comfort to know I’m not exhibiting any symptoms of meningitis, malaria, or Ebola fever. Or even flu or food poisoning.
Sometimes I just radio ahead to be sure there’s nothing infectious lurking in the waiting room when I go to pick up the results of the tests I’ve asked for.
“Headaches? Upset tummies? Fever?”
“Nope, and before you ask, no stiff necks, breathing issues, giddy spells or tiny skin haemorrhages either. I think it’s safe to show up today,” sighs Katie with what I take to be empathy.
Let me quickly assure you: I’m not a hypochondriac. In fact, I radiate good health.
Not all my friends are so lucky. And what’s more, they want to tell you why. I used to allow five minutes of health-related conversation at our dinner parties. Now I’ve stretched it to ten. Anything more and there’s a chance we’ll all be subjected to the grisly details of entire procedures – sutures, drips, bedpans.
Some of us contract symptoms just from hearing about them. I need only get a whiff of a lump or lesion or bad back or sleeplessness and, by golly, the next day I feel a twinge.
That twinge inevitably leads to more energetic on-line investigation and before you know it, I’m facing the inescapable: death. Whether from sunstroke, a nosebleed, or haemorrhoids.
Yet somewhere between the Mayo Clinic website and YouAskedaQuack.com, I’ve also developed excellent diagnostic skills which I’m only too happy to share with medical professionals.
So wish me luck for my medical next week. And pray for my doctor.
John and I are both in great shape, with nothing to complain about. But the prospect of a check-up always makes us aware of Things That Could Go Wrong.
When we were younger, physicals took no time at all. You put an x beside all the items in the NO column – no serious illnesses; no operations; no palpitations or chest pain; no unusual bleeding – and the doctor examined your eyes, ears, throat, reflexes, and added a chest thump for good measure.
It’s different now. Our bodies have aged. Bits are shrivelling or falling off. And the doctor wants detailed information about bowels, bladders, breathing, sex life. Meanwhile, I want tips on memory retention.
Fortunately we have a wonderful GP. He’s the perfect age: halfway between adolescence and obsolescence (and, by the way, is it just my imagination or are medical schools now conferring degrees on 12 year olds?); and he’s prepared to sign an affidavit swearing he won’t retire until John and I are dead.
That’s because we’re the perfect medically-informed patients. John’s a doctor’s son – okay, full disclosure, his father was an obstetrician, but apart from a critical organ or two, what’s the difference? – and I like surfing the web, picking up nuggets of ailments, hoping to find a noteworthy but benign condition to call my own.
This on-line research also allows me to suggest diagnoses to the doctor, and to offer sage advice on prescriptions or tests he might like to send us for.
“What’s on your list today?” he usually asks as he enters the examining room. “And what have you decided we should do about it?”
He’s very appreciative of my para-medical knowledge, and is always prepared to make a good case for himself, should his professional opinion differ from mine.
Occasionally I’ll phone his assistant just to check on viruses and bacteria currently popular in our community. I like to be prepared.
“Hi, Katie. Anyone coming in complaining of headaches this week?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“How about upset tummies?”
“Nope.”
“Fever?”
“Nope.”
I move into more obscure territory: “Stiff necks? Breathing issues? Giddy spells? Tiny skin haemorrhages?”
“Nope,” says Katie, oath-bound to secrecy.
Nothing leaves me feeling healthier than these virtual visits to the clinic: it’s such a comfort to know I’m not exhibiting any symptoms of meningitis, malaria, or Ebola fever. Or even flu or food poisoning.
Sometimes I just radio ahead to be sure there’s nothing infectious lurking in the waiting room when I go to pick up the results of the tests I’ve asked for.
“Headaches? Upset tummies? Fever?”
“Nope, and before you ask, no stiff necks, breathing issues, giddy spells or tiny skin haemorrhages either. I think it’s safe to show up today,” sighs Katie with what I take to be empathy.
Let me quickly assure you: I’m not a hypochondriac. In fact, I radiate good health.
Not all my friends are so lucky. And what’s more, they want to tell you why. I used to allow five minutes of health-related conversation at our dinner parties. Now I’ve stretched it to ten. Anything more and there’s a chance we’ll all be subjected to the grisly details of entire procedures – sutures, drips, bedpans.
Some of us contract symptoms just from hearing about them. I need only get a whiff of a lump or lesion or bad back or sleeplessness and, by golly, the next day I feel a twinge.
That twinge inevitably leads to more energetic on-line investigation and before you know it, I’m facing the inescapable: death. Whether from sunstroke, a nosebleed, or haemorrhoids.
Yet somewhere between the Mayo Clinic website and YouAskedaQuack.com, I’ve also developed excellent diagnostic skills which I’m only too happy to share with medical professionals.
So wish me luck for my medical next week. And pray for my doctor.
AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE: FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING
TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN,
TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS
OF THEIR OWN.
TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;
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OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDY.HOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDY.HOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.
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