An impending physical medical exam leaves little to be desired. Its draw lessens if predicated by outside forces, such as employment requirements, life insurance mandates, or a nagging spouse. Nobody wants to allow another human being to intimately explore their body without the premise it will, at least, be an enjoyable experience for oneself. Take away the happy ending possibilities and what’s left?
Perhaps patiently waiting for the violations to cease while lying naked and prostrate on a cold, steel gurney like some hapless, lone stargazer snatched away by anatomically curious space aliens, no doubt.
For some of you, that probably sounds like a fond, collegiate memory. But trust me, you are an anomaly and quite possibly a danger to yourself, although likely the life of the party in certain social circles. To each his own, c’est la vie, text me the pics, whatever.
O.K., so I’m really only talking about a routine physical exam, nothing overly invasive like a colonoscopy. I’ve never had a colonoscopy, but I hear they’re all the rage. Any procedure that involves sedation because medical professionals plan to shove the space shuttle up your rectum and your lucidity may trigger violent opposition, sounds like a riot. I’ll save that experience for my cellie during a lengthy prison sentence. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that I saved myself for him and not thrown myself at every proctologist in town, like some anal floozy.
I don’t have some mild fascination with buttholes, but the thought of a prostate exam, while nowhere near as likely to cause post-traumatic stress disorder like a colonoscopy, still ranks as the number one feared procedure for men during a physical exam. At least it does for this man.
I’m not sure if it’s driving the wrong way on a one-way road, or the person behind the wheel. I suppose a cute Asian, female doctor with small, slender fingers, ranks much higher than an intern who worked his way through medical school packing sausages, all the while sporting Rob Gronkowski sized hands. Maybe that’s just me. Gronk does have a buttload of fans.
If a doctor peers down my throat, gazes inside my ear canal, or slides a stethoscope over my chest, we’re in the green zone.
The green zone is comfortable, safe. Nobody gets too shook while living in the green zone. Your modesty is never in question. That all changes when somebody’s grandfather, draped in a coffee-stained white lab coat decides it’s time to finger your anal cavity. However, that’s two zones ahead. Please allow me to regress (I refrained from saying pullout).
The next phase is obviously the yellow zone, for those of us who drive in a post-industrial world. In the yellow zone, cautionary instincts arise and we begin to feel more vulnerable, exposed. This is mostly true for men because we’ve dropped our pants somewhere between our knees and ankles. We’re in no real danger per se, but the hairs on the back of our necks illicit our primordial attention that centers on protecting one’s reproductive junk. That and a cool breeze from the AC vents rolling over our genitalia.
I don’t know why, but it’s just fun to say genitalia. See, that was fun and I’m only typing it. Just randomly saying nipples is a close second. It might be number one for you. Let me know which you prefer. I honestly would like to know.
So, back to the yellow zone.
Do we slow down for this phase or hit the gas and fishtail our way through the intersection with reckless urgency? I mean, we’re exposing body parts normally only shared during personal, intimate moments with people specifically of our own choosing.
I would imagine a OB/GYN examine for women is a similar experience. It’s a necessary, precautionary evil, but at the end of the day how would I really know if we’re comparing apples to apples? I’m just another idiot man who keeps his eyes straight ahead, waiting to be told to turn and cough. Don’t look down. It’s generally a man fondling your nuts!
Now we enter the red zone, aka the prostate exam.
Let’s be perfectly clear, here. Entering the red zone should cause a reasonable person to stop and ponder, “Do I really need to do this?” I once had a doc tell me he wasn’t going to send me flowers or call me back right before doing the old fashioned finger test. Although I was disappointed with his stated lack of followup, he was honest with his intentions. I changed doctors anyway. At the least he could have pumped in some Barry White, lit a candle, and set the mood.
There is an exit from the red zone, however. They could perform a prostate-specific antigen (PSA) test that avoids the awkward digital insertion, if you feel the relationship with your doctor isn’t quite ready to go to that next level. A lab simply analyzes your blood, looking for the protein. Easy, right?
Wrong! The test is wrought with false positives and false negatives. Plus, it costs more! So, basically it’s unreliable and hits you harder in the wallet. Maybe you should just take the hit a few inches over and know for sure.
I firmly believe that Chevy Chase epitomized the prostate exam in the iconic movie, “Fletch”.
If you haven’t seen “Fletch”, promptly exit this page and immediately download, buy, rent, or steal this movie. It’s an absolute classic and a must see, especially if you’re not sure of what to expect regarding your imminent medical probe. While you’re at it, go to iTunes and download a version of “Moon River”. Both are classics, and they meld together beautifully for one cinematic moment.
But if you can’t view “Fletch” before your Dr. Jelly Finger visit (Fletch reference), don’t worry. The medical profession knows how to set you at ease. You know, “just relax Mr. Davis and place your elbows on the exam table”. Now I can definitely relax while leaning over, maybe even resting quasi-comfortably on my elbows. However, when I’m not wearing pants and a gloved finger is getting lubed with KY directly behind me, relaxation goes out the window.
Why can’t we repeat the 1980’s drug campaign slogan and “just say no”? Well, you know what? It was actually that damn easy.
As it turns out, the doctors don’t want to perform the exam any more than we want to receive it.
I suppose a proctologist, who’s made the study of anal sphincters their life’s passion, is an eager and proactive prostate pusher. Maybe even a urologist or two. Not so much for general practitioners.
So when the doc said it was up to me, I knew I’d been granted a reprieve. I’m pretty sure I detected a fleeting expression of relief on the doctor’s face, too.
So for one more year I can avoid the awkward, post insertion exchange of tissues followed by the hasty wiping of lube from my butt cheeks. At least in a clinical setting. I’m kidding, you alien abducted perv.