Before moving to India, I got a stem to stern medical checkup. This included the dreaded first prostate exam (emphasis on “prostate exam” not on “first” as I don’t suspect the process gets any more pleasant.) When my wife and I had both been on my work insurance, we had a HMO that said they didn’t do prostate exams for white males until they were 65 and older (or postmortem, if they died of prostate cancer, whichever came first.) That should’ve been a clue that they were a bunch of bean-counting quacks, but as I was less than eager to get said exam I took their word for it.
Anyhow, the area where I lived was fairly close to Emory University, and my new doctor’s office was even closer. (For those of you unfamiliar with Atlanta or Georgia–Emory has one of the preeminent medical schools in the Southeast and for some specialties the country) When I got my physical, after the preliminaries conducted by the nurse, I was next seen by what–for lack of a better term–I’ll call a junior doctor (ER went off the air too long ago for me to remember the proper terminology). This was a poised and professional young woman–I know not whether a medical student or recent graduate from Emory medical school.
She reviewed my medical history and did a few rudimentary “stick out your tongue and say ‘ahh’” kinds of things. Then she told me that my doctor–a man I’d never met before–would be into look me over and write the prescriptions for the meds that I needed for coming to an area prone to malaria and other plagues.
She then asked, “If you’d prefer, your doctor can do your prostate exam. Otherwise, I’ll do it. Do you have a preference?”
I said, “Having never met the man, and at the risk of sounding sexist, I’m going to assume that you’ve got daintier hands. Ergo, you’ve got the job.” To which she replied, “Yeeeah, me,” in the feeblest monotone voice, her tone suggesting that she might not be as thrilled by the prospect as her words would have indicated.
I had the exam. It was quick, painless, but–I’ll not lie–not without the inevitable awkwardness associated with one person having a hand–or part thereof–lodged in another person.
For those of you who know me, it goes without saying that my doctor turned out to be the most petite homuculus of a man. (You know what they say about what happens when you ASS-U-ME, U get the hand of a bigger ME in your ASS.) However, you pays your money and you takes your choice. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking the doctor and intern to place their palms together to see who had bigger digits.
By B Gourley in funny, Health, humor, Medicine on June 4, 2014.
