buckle up
I had my annual physical yesterday, and it seemed almost recklessly cursory. The physician's assistant listened to my heart and lungs for about five seconds, patted my abdomen, and pronounced me healthy. She wasn't wrong, but, I don't know, have a little showmanship. Make it look good. Squeeze my junk, gag me with a tongue depressor. Tap my knee with that triangle hammer. "This could have been an email" is not something I ever want to say about my checkup.
What consumed the better part of the visit was the questioning. Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you exercise? How much caffeine do you consume? Do you wear sunscreen? Would you like me to screen for STDs when you get your bloodwork done? No? I'll run that one anyway, just in case, because I think you're lying about how many people you sleep with.
This year there was a new question.
Do you wear your seatbelt?
Yeah, I do, but what if I didn't?
"Wear it," she would've said.
"OK, I will," I would've replied.
"Good."
"OK."
"Fine."
I can't stop thinking about this. When a person ruefully says "should've worn his seatbelt," that person is usually a state trooper or a coroner scraping human remains off the asphalt. It's never "if only he'd worn his seat belt, he would've spared himself a minor bruise." What I'm saying is if I don't wear my seatbelt and something goes terribly wrong, I'm not going to be the doctor's problem anyway. Case closed.
While we're at it, why not ask me whether I engage in other risky behaviors? When you skydive, do you wear a parachute? Do you ever stand on that part of the ladder that says "do not stand here"? How often do you jump into the lion enclosure at the zoo? How many cups of bleach do you drink in a week?
This is also the first time I've been asked to do a six-month follow-up on my annual physical, which seems a little unnecessary. I'm told it can be done over the phone. Perhaps I'll call from the car. "Hello, doctor's office? I just wanted to let you know I'm wearing my seatbelt. Yes. I'm calling from the car. Yes, I'm driving right now. What? Hands-free? No, I am holding the phone in one hand and steering with the other. Distracted driving? I don't see the problem with AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH--"
What consumed the better part of the visit was the questioning. Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you exercise? How much caffeine do you consume? Do you wear sunscreen? Would you like me to screen for STDs when you get your bloodwork done? No? I'll run that one anyway, just in case, because I think you're lying about how many people you sleep with.
This year there was a new question.
Do you wear your seatbelt?
Yeah, I do, but what if I didn't?
"Wear it," she would've said.
"OK, I will," I would've replied.
"Good."
"OK."
"Fine."
I can't stop thinking about this. When a person ruefully says "should've worn his seatbelt," that person is usually a state trooper or a coroner scraping human remains off the asphalt. It's never "if only he'd worn his seat belt, he would've spared himself a minor bruise." What I'm saying is if I don't wear my seatbelt and something goes terribly wrong, I'm not going to be the doctor's problem anyway. Case closed.
While we're at it, why not ask me whether I engage in other risky behaviors? When you skydive, do you wear a parachute? Do you ever stand on that part of the ladder that says "do not stand here"? How often do you jump into the lion enclosure at the zoo? How many cups of bleach do you drink in a week?
This is also the first time I've been asked to do a six-month follow-up on my annual physical, which seems a little unnecessary. I'm told it can be done over the phone. Perhaps I'll call from the car. "Hello, doctor's office? I just wanted to let you know I'm wearing my seatbelt. Yes. I'm calling from the car. Yes, I'm driving right now. What? Hands-free? No, I am holding the phone in one hand and steering with the other. Distracted driving? I don't see the problem with AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH--"