Waiting

..
advised me there might be a good twenty minute wait as there were a few patients
ahead of me.
Indeed there were, but it was actually over an hour later that I was finally
called into the surgery. In the meantime I’d read The Australian (thoroughly),
sent elaborate texts to various people, written an entry in my diary, read ancient
issues of Who Weekly and The National Geographic and fiddled with a vintage
stereoscope and stack of cabinet cards that just happened to be lying around
in the waiting room.
I’d resorted to doing silly walks around the empty waiting room by the
time the doctor shunted out the penultimate morning patient and requested my
presence.
I was somewhat taken aback, not only because it was finally my turn, but because
it turned out this wasn’t my usual doctor. After this pretender had rummaged
through my files and established that we had actually met once before he asked
what brought me to see him. I said I was sorry to inform him that his last patient
for the morning was a prostate inspection, which didn’t seem to faze him
and he said that he’d already dealt with four or five gentlemen with the
same request before me.
Before he undertook the dreaded procedure he thought it prudent to first check
on a few other vital statistics and checked my blood pressure (perfect) and
my lungs before he suggested I get up onto the couch and proceeded to methodically
prod my guts and groin.
Then he asked me to lower my dacks and underpants and lie facing the wall with
my knees drawn up. In his favour he kept me informed of what he was doing and
what he was about to do, but it was still a shock.
‘Hmmm.. Good size,’ he mused, ‘Not too big and not too hard’
– at which point I thought it might be appropriate for him to withdraw, but
it wasn’t over quite yet.
‘No irregularities on the surface either’ he said as his finger
traced round the circumference of my prostate. The tears that had been gathering
in my eyes suddenly squirted out and hit the wall. ‘That’s good’
I muttered as manfully as I could, but I really wanted to demand that he immediately
CEASE AND DESIST.
Nevertheless he completed one more thoughtful circuit of my prostate before
finally withdrawing and I was able to awkwardly roll off the couch and hoist
up my undies and jeans.
I sat down delicately as the doctor debated with himself whether a blood test
was needed and filled in the appropriate pathological form.
I suppose peace of mind is worth an hour or so’s wait and some momentary
discomfort. Men’s problems are insignificant in comparison to women’s
and knowing that you’re continuing to remain healthy is precious information,
especially at an age when the expectation is that deterioration is inevitable.
Failing hearing and eye-sight are salutary reminders of that fact.
Now, of course, I’m waiting for my test results. I’m waiting for
my test results. It’s exactly the sort of thing you hear from people my
age all the time if you’re slightly serious about finding out how we are.
It’s best not to ask. In fact, I think the best strategy is to preemptively
disarm us with a comment on how well we’re looking. That will save you
a lot of time listening to the litany of complaints about our dicky health –
never forgetting our dicky dickies of course..