Xavier Bishop

I finally got around to doing something I’ve been meaning to do for more than two years. No, I didn’t give up being a vegetarian.  I went to see a doctor.

This may not seem like a big deal for many of you but like so many other things, in the aftermath of Katrina I’ve been putting off getting a checkup.  You know the excuses: I was always too busy, too tired, or it required too much effort. And the more I waited the more I became a little too afraid of what the examination might reveal.

To top it all off like many guys I’ve never been a fan of going to see a doctor. For what? I feel fine. Basically. Somewhat. Certaininly not bad enough to give up what I’d rather do.  So add the excuses, the procrastination and the rationalization, and you have someone who in reality should not waste another day getting a physical. So I didn’t. I went. 

The first thing the doctor did was check my weight. One hundred seventy-five pounds! I was shocked. “How can that be?” I protested. “After all that I’ve lost I should be weighing less.  I’ve lost my patience, lost my temper, not to mention all the hair I’ve lost over the last two years. I should be weighing less, not more. There must be a mistake. I want a second opinion.” He chuckled in response.

After the weigh-in he gaves me a blood pressure test. But before he starts I warn him that I’m still upset over my weight gain, so he’ll need to grade my blood pressure test on a curve. He laughs and wraps the nylon band around to my arm. Tightly.  He wraps it so tightly in fact that I tell him I can’t breathe. “Relax,” he says, “stop holding your breath.” He’s right.  I exhale and suddenly I’m ok.  And so was my blood pressure as it turned out.

Next he takes the stethoscope, places it on my chest and tells me to breathe in, hold it and breathe out.  Which I do, but I get a little concerned when he begins moving the stethoscope all around my chest, from the left side to right side, then up and down, like he can’t find my damn heart.  I’m like – hey, doc, it’s over here, pointing to the left side of my chest. He cast a knowing smile but said nothing.

 Afterwards he looks in my ears, my eyes and my throat. “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil,” I suggest amusingly.  He ignores me, says nothing.

Next he wheels over a machine that’s about the size of my son’s highchair. It has lots of controls, a monitor and a cable that extends out from the side.  He flicks a few switches and the monitor displays what looks like the outer limits of the universe. He rubs a gel on my throat and places the end of the cable where he’d previously put the gel. Moving it around he looks at the monitor.

“What are we looking at?” I ask. “Your two major arteries,” he responds.  Believing I’m seeing what he’s seeing I ask, “how do they look?” “They look great,” he assures me, pointing to an O-like disk on the monitor. “No blockage.”  “Are you sure the machine’s working?” I wisecrack, “I don’t see any blood flowing.”  Growing slightly irritated, he still says nothing.

Turning to his desk he refers to my patient information sheet. “I see you’re over 50,” he comments casually. “Yep,” I say proudly. Certain that he’s amazed at my youthful heath and appearance.  “I’m going to schedule you for a colonoscopy,” he informed me.  “And since it will be your first I’ll recommend it be done without sedation.”  My jaw drops. Colon? Isn’t that the long snake-like tube that goes from your stomach to you’re a…?

Before I could offer up an excuse he glides his chair over to a nearby shelf and retrieves a pair of latex gloves. Sliding one on each hand he snaps the latex around his wrist as if to make a statement.

“And, since you’re over 50 we’ll need to give you your annual prostate examine.”

Grabbing the sides of the chair I hold on for dear life. Suddenly I had a newfound appreciation for my 175 pounds as I cemented my bottom deep within the cushion of the chair.

“But, but, but…” I begin to protest.

“Butt, butt, butt,” he responds.

 “Let’s use the highchair-thingy,” I suggest. “it will show us if there is a problem, won’t it?”

“No, I think you were right, it doesn’t appear to be working.”

“I know!” I exclaim, “I could self-examine. You know, the way women do for breast cancer.”

He smiles and shakes his head disapprovingly.

Then he offers up a solution. “If you’re uncomfortable with me doing the examination I could call in nurse Kristov.”

He motions over to a picture on the wall which I assume to be of nurse Kristov, a burly 300 pound man-woman smiling to reveal two missing front teeth. A look at his/her hands showed fingers the size of lampposts. The answer was obvious.

 Fifteen minutes later I limped out of the doctors office, wondering if he’d checked my prostate AND my colon at the same time. Though my pride is wounded I found solace in the Certificate of Good Health I held close to my chest.