Bowel Cancer Awareness Month is upon us. The campaign’s ads urge those of us of a certain age to keep a government-provided stool test near our chests. “Put it on the floor, on the toilet seat, on the bench, so you never forget it when you have to go,” they suggest. I was reminded of all the wise little grudges we humans must obey to keep our bodies afloat.
When we enter the realm of tests and procedures, I think we come closer to the inner child than at any other time in our adult lives. And most of us, even the brave, assertive types, strangely obey, often to strangers, when they ask us to do irrational things.
We go back to the kids when we go to the doctor or the dentist. Why so?Credit: Age
Like my new ophthalmologist the other day. A tall, handsome man who loves fresh air, rhythm and blues music. “Lie back in this chair,” said Dr. Handsome, interrupting Sunnyland Slim. “I will inject a steroid into your eye. Is that possible? Now don’t blink.”
Then there was an eye surgeon who took care of a hole in my macula – how do you even take a hole there? – insisted that I lie on my right side for the next 10 days so that the air bubble he put in would not move. Air balloon? Ten days? Beside me? Naturally, I obeyed. Doctors know best.
And it is precisely because we think the doctor knows best that we are so submissive. These people spent more than six years removing it on the mucous membranes and fatty intestines. Who are we to question their wisdom? We have to trust them because we don’t know the first thing about yellow spots and dodgy knees.
I suppose females are much more accustomed to prognostic prompts than males. That’s because women often want to know if something is wrong with them and men don’t. (And it’s a little truth that we were born human.)
The dentist explained what he was going to do and then asked if I wanted a blanket. New panacea.
Women face a myriad of medical outrages that, if seen in isolation, certainly belong in a Franz Kafka play. “Come over to the machine, lean forward, then back, and I will squeeze your left breast into a pancake shape.” I’m sure that’s what the ladies of BreastScreen whisper when you show up for the day. And so you do it.
And you even get regular pap tests because you’re a law-abiding citizen and have listened to the warnings. You lie in bed, locking your knees together like a virgin belt until the doctor tells you to relax. “What do you plan to do for the holidays?” she asked, approaching you with a steel speculum the size of a Japanese pumpkin.
