Down A Quart, But Otherwise Fine
I had my biannual physical yesterday. No, this won’t be an organ recital, there are no details to divulge. As opposed to the company-sponored physicals that my Dad used to undergo in the 60s, which involved enemas, barium milkshakes, scopings and proddings, my physical seemed mostly like a conversation with inappropriate touching.
A certain portion of the exam consisted of the doc exchanging information with a PC workstation in the exam room, entering and expanding on my responses to a questionnaire they had given me when I checked in. Halfway through completing it I had noticed that it was for “Women ages 50 - 60″, but had finished it anyway, demurring on the question of the date of my last period. Even if I could remember, no way would I tell them. I guess the computer-consultation is no different than the 2″ thick paper file the doc used to bring in to the exams, and an “expert-systems” approach will lead more quickly to focused diagnosis. Still, when I asked at some point how that day’s blood pressure reading compared to previous ones, the doc clicked on the screen and said, “I dunno. They didn’t enter it on your last visit.” THAT they could have culled from my paper file for sure. I wonder if it’s still around.
The worst part of these things for me is when they draw blood. I get lightheaded, and have passed out on occasion. It’s not the pain, of course, or the actual loss of blood, but the idea, I think, of breaching my circulatory system. “This will be easy,” they say, “you’ve got great veins.” Which is the most effusive anatomical compliment I’ve had since, I guess, the last time someone wanted to bleed me. They tape cotton over the wound when they’re done, and say to leave it on for 20 minutes. I remove it only when I have to shower that evening, and even then expect the worst.
