The doctor’s waiting room was full at 9.30am. I looked around and noticed that I was the only man there. Do women suffer more from ailments than the male of the species or do they just care more about their health? I found a leaflet on the waiting room table that gave me the answer. It had a picture of a middle aged man covered in engine oil with a headline saying “Isn’t it time you treated your body like you treated you car?”
It was marketing that wasn’t aimed at me. I haven’t washed my car for two months; feed it with overly octaned fuel and leave it parked in dodgy neighbourhoods beside cars of low moral character. But the ad did enough to make me realise that men don’t get their bodies serviced enough. At least not in the medical sense.
It’s not as though we don’t talk about health matters. There is a myth that men change the subject to football whenever the mention of haemorrhoids or testicular cancer comes up.
Maybe that’s the case when we’re in our twenties and full of the bravado of youth and a feeling of invincibility. But sometime in my thirties, I noticed the conversation among my mates in the pub changed from being totally about football to the delicate matter of the deterioration of our bodies. After a few beers and the necessary thirty minutes spent talking about property and cars, one of the lads would mention a lump he’d found or a recurring pain in his knee and we’d nod sagely and give our support before turning back to more important matters, such as whether Roy Keane was right to walk out of the 2002 World Cup.
I was always upfront about my ailments. I never really saw the point in keeping them quiet, as though talking about them helped me to normalise things. So on many occasions I bored my friends with tales of sinus problems, blood pressure monitoring devises that I had to wear at night and a strange encounter I once had with a consultant with rubber gloves and a microscopic camera.
The Health Service in Ireland gets regular media coverage, particularly about how rubbish it is. And when you live in Australia you realise how accurate this is. I could name five things I’ve seen here that would radically improve the Irish health system, but there is no point, because none of my ideas would enrich hospital consultants and drug companies and that’s the main objective of the Irish health system.
I’ve been impressed with the Australia system from the first time I visited a doctor here and she told me what my blood pressure reading was. That was more information than I’d gleamed from my Irish doctor in 12 years of visits. She has sent me for more tests than a cyclist endures in the Tour De France. And not because there is anything particularly wrong with me. It’s just that in Australia, prevention is more important than cure.
My employer is also concerned about my health, which is touching, and has decided to send me for an annual independent check up. I’m pretty relaxed now about the whole thing, even the blood and urine stuff. I’ve had blood taken so many times this year, my left arm feels like a dartboard and I’ve perfected the art of peeing into a small container without getting your hands wet.
But this check up had an extra surprise at the end. The doctor was a middle aged woman with a slightly eerie stare, so when she uttered the words “Prostate Examination”, I froze. She asked me if I was comfortable with that and I croaked back “As comfortable as any man could be with what you are about to do”.
She got me, as the say in the trade, in the position and went to work. I tried to think of butter cups and snowflakes but it didn’t help. The best way I can describe it is that it felt like she was looking for her keys in the bottom of her handbag.
When it was over, I was left to button up and wallow in the indignity of it all. I mean if a woman is going to do that to you, you’d expect at least a glass of wine first and a chat about how attractive you are. At least it wasn’t as bad as the time my friend Paul went for the same check. Half way through the process the doctor asked him if he was OK. Paul said “Yes, but your ring is tickling a little”. The doctor said, “Oh, that’s not a ring, that’s my wristwatch”!
I was given a clean bill of health, which was ironic, because two days later I was laid low with my first illness since arriving in the lucky country. I developed a nasty case of the runs and spent the Australia Day bank holiday on the toilet, which is also how many Australians spent the holiday, although they at least have alcohol to blame.
I tried initially to starve it out and went on a strict plain food diet. But it wasn’t working, so finally I had to swallow my pride and get some drugs. Unfortunately, Chemists tend to employ young ladies who can advise on the beauty products for sale as well as sell “fix me quick” potions to the likes of me. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable explaining my symptoms to anyone younger than me, so I hovered at the back until the only older lady in the shop was free.
I shuffled up, trying hard to look healthy for some reason. “I need something for Diarrhoea” I whispered. “You need something for Gonorrhoea” she shouted. “You’ll need a prescription for that”. I had the attention of the whole store at this stage which was unfortunate because it made me want to get to a toilet very quickly.
So if there is a motto to all this, I would call on all my male readers to go out and get your body serviced, before your big end gives in like mine did.
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