By Monte Lazarus
I’ve now reached the Age of the Physician, where every move is monitored, and your waking hours are spent being poked, prodded and provoked by doctors desperately trying to pay off their medical school loans. According to my records I have seen every “ist” in Collier County and elsewhere, beginning with anesthesiologist and ending with zygapophysic (which may not exist, although I honestly believe I visited one). Next week I’m graduating from “ists” to “”ians”. My first will be a veterinarian, just in case someone missed something.
The entire process includes yielding gallons of blood to the local Dracula, who sends it to some castle in Transylvania for analysis. You usually wind up in a medical office where you are greeted by a dour-faced medical person in a white coat, who is surpassed only in grimness by a local Mercedes dealer who also has donned a white coat and has a stethoscope around his neck as he announces that your five year old car is “terminal” unless you fork up $7,540 to repair a pinhole leak. By the way, mechanics do not accept Medicare.
In any event the prescriptions and over-the-counters soon begin cluttering the kitchen table. It doesn’t end there. The medical visits become more frequent, more varied and, in some cases, more excruciating. (At this point the narrative gets out of the “G” rating classification and into “R” for Repulsive. Please keep small children and impressionable males away from what follows.)
Science marches on, and more and more tests are being performed. Here it comes: I was recently in one of my routine visits to a doctor in the “U” (for urologist) category, thus giving away part of the story. I was in a very awkward bent-over position as I was being given a “digital examination” – that’s a euphemism for torture as practiced during the Spanish Inquisition. The doctor suddenly and happily advised me that he was going to give me a more extended exam, presumably because I hadn’t confessed to anything yet. Since he had already reached up to my throat, I could only gurgle a response. He apparently interpreted that as my consent. It really didn’t matter because he had already finished. The moral: Men, don’t ride horses after that particular exam.
There is some consolation in learning, or perhaps re-learning, that one of the causes of many of our maladies is simply eating too much, and also a lot of wrong stuff. Sadly, potato chips, fries, crispy fried fish, fried chicken and the three scoop ice cream sundae with fudge syrup are out. Apples are in, and so are green vegetables. We all know that, but the secret is putting knowledge into action. There’s a very simple test: if it really tastes great it is not good for you. Conversely, the worst it tastes (note you broccoli haters) the healthier it is. And doctors are really there to help us notwithstanding our fear and dread.
I have learned all this simple stuff the hard way, and have exhausted the Collier County medical fraternity as well as myself. Therefore, I’ve decided to go to the Caribbean for as long as it takes, because there’s reliable information that a wonderful witch doctor is practicing on one of the islands. I’m determined to find him…or her.