Off the Cuff / My Other Journal

Let's get Physical!

"Let's get Physical!" That's an old song and oldies like me remember it. Well, I had a physical this morning. I was poked, fingered (if you know what I mean), drilled, grilled, and my blood sucked out of me.
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My doctor is nice; he shakes my hand and makes eye-contact as soon as he enters the room. This makes the blue, open-in-the-back paper gown I'm wearing a little less disrespectful. He asks relevant questions, listens carefully to my answers, and smiles politely to show his sense of humor.

His bedside, or rather examination-table-side manners have been practiced to perfection, as are my instincts that sense the tonal inconsistencies in his voice when he feels a red-flag is up. We approach each other as if on a rink, as two seasoned pros: the professional taught by US medical schools and trained in the hospitals and examination rooms; the other, moi who, after so many years of being around medicine one way or another, has gotten to know these professionals to correctly guess their ways, likes, and dislikes. I know that he knows; he knows that I know.

He knows I'm avoiding telling him something. He doesn't insist. On his way out of the room, he abruptly turns back:

"Anything else? You better tell me now, before the nurse comes in with the cardio machine."

Touché! He's won. I know, when I am caught with my back to the ropes. Falteringly, I tell him about the numbness and tingling at one specific point on my left thigh. "I am managing it, not important!" I add.

"Let's find out, whether it's important or not," he says. This is what I have been afraid of. I know I am going to get a nerve conduction test, but I don't tell him that.

"It is probably a pinched nerve," I say.

He looks at me without answering, his stare throwing a thousand questions. The ball is still in my court. He's waiting for me to say something.

"It might be Meralgia Paresthetica," I say. Then, I clear my throat.

"Or an emboli." His left hook floors me. I send a how-could-you stare at his direction. "It deserves to be investigated. We'll send you to a neurologist," he says.

He always does this. When he's throwing something tedious at my way, he doesn't own it. It is "we" who does the sending, not the doctor. I nod, admitting defeat. After all, he does deserve his heavy weight belt.