Paper Sheets, Voiding Cups, and Mango Metamucil

July 28, 2009

Dear Fellow Travelers,
Tomorrow, I have my annual physical exam; for some reason, I thought you would want to know that. Gosh, now that I think about it, I hope I can muster up what it takes to pass it. The truth is I hope I can pass it with flying colors, which at my age, ain’t nearly as easy as it once was.
You think about it. At my age, I have to go into that small, freezing-cold, sterile-feeling office and take of all of my clothes, and put some flimsy paper sheet over my naked body, that is about half long enough to cover my important parts, and wait for the doctor to arrive. I already know his first question: How are you, today? I also know my answer: I am about to freeze to death; in fact, I have embalmed people who were warmer than I am.
Oh, I almost forgot! Before the experience in the “embalming room,” some cute nurse will have weighed me. For the life of me, I do not know why because I have weighed the same thing for the past 50 years, and she has it recorded on her chart. I tell her that every time, but she doesn’t listen. Just before I step on the scales, she will ask me, if I want to remove my shoes. I probably won’t say it, but, as always, I will wonder why in the wide-world it is so important not to wear shoes when weighing in. Maybe it is a Jewish custom or something.
Next, she will hand me a little cup and tell me to go into the bathroom, void in the cup, and leave it on the back of the toilet. It took me several years to figure out what “void in the cup” meant (in nursing language), so for most of my life, I just did the only thing that made any sense to me: I dipped a little of the toilet water into the cup and left it on the back of the toilet, and, inevitably, I would have to pee, thinking how glad I was that I had already dipped the water. Things are different, now that I know what “void” means.
Then comes the blood pressure thingy. I do not know why she has to pump that gizmo up so tight that my eyes bulge, but I guess it is necessary, even though I have never had particularly high blood pressure. When she finishes, she writes down what she learned, as if it is some kind of classified secret. Just to aggravate her, I always ask (tomorrow will be no exception!) if I have any blood pressure (most embalming room patients don’t), thinking she will laugh, but she never does.
You know what’s coming next! “When did you last have a bowel movement?” (I never have known why she wants to know that, but I will try to remember and tell her. Actually, I am sure it won’t have been all that long ago, so I should be able to remember, rather easily). Then, as if she hasn’t already been intrusive enough, she will want to know if I am constipated (Obviously, she doesn’t know me, so I tell her “yes,” which is a major lie, but I never tell her that, and, again, tomorrow will be no exception; instead, I will peep over her shoulder, as she very discretely writes in all caps—METAMUCIL; I have no idea what that means, or I would tell you).
As you can probably guess, she always asks me if I am sleeping at night (When else would she think I would sleep?), so I feel certain that I will get that question tomorrow. I usually tell her that I am on the night shift and sleep during the day, which is another huge lie, but I never tell her that either. Inevitably, she asks me where I work during the day? Of course, I reply with, “Did I say that I work?”). Somewhere, long about now, she says the Doctor will be in to see you in a little while. This is when I learn that she is a bigger liar than I, unless she measures minutes in hours.
Anyway, after some time, the Doc will come in and, as I said earlier, he will ask me how I am doing (I will wonder if he looked at the chart the nurse just filled out!) and I will tell him that I am about to freeze to death; in fact, I have embalmed people who were warmer than I am, albeit, covered with a similar sheet.
Thankfully, he won’t ask me when I last had a bowel movement, or if I am constipated, but before it is all over, he will want to know, if I prefer orange or grape Metamucil. Since, I have no preference, I will probably tell him that I prefer mango. To be honest with you, I have never been constipated in my entire life—far from it.
After a few probes in very interesting places, he will tell the nurse to do an EKG. To the untrained patient, those are just letters, but to an old experienced one like I, it almost creates panic. Before it is over, there will be very few hairs left on my chest, and all she will to say to console me is “Sorry; I know that hurt.” Truth is I know she enjoys it, otherwise, why does she always have that weird grin on her face? If Docs can install new vessels into our hearts, give us knee replacements, and remove our gall bladders through a laparoscope, why can’t they figure out to make those sticky things come off more easily?
You will have to be of the male sex to understand the rest of this but I will spare the details, other than to tell you that my youngest brother was having this particular test (you know, the one done with a digit) done by his doctor, a female, and in the process, he asked, “Does your mother know what you do for a living?”
I am not sure what all of this has to do with the intricacies of God's amazing grace, but I am sure you can make a connection, if you try hard enough.

“How blessed is he who considers the helpless; the Lord will deliver him in a day of trouble. The Lord will protect him, and keep him alive . . .” (Psalm 41:1-2a).