A check-up – What about my shoes and socks?

Tony Hancock would be a quivering mess. It’s that time of year again – annual medical check-up humiliation and loss of dignity time.

The male of the species coming to this indifferent and uninterested poking of body parts, has little instruction on the protocols for the occasion. Phrases that in other circumstances would have a more attractive meaning, take on an edge of menace because of the context in which they are used. ‘Loosen your belt’, ‘drop your trousers’, ‘take off your clothes’, ‘climb on the couch’, ‘lie on your side with your knee up’ are terrifying once your first annual medical visit teaches you they are not invitations to an enjoyable bout of interpersonal mingling.

The nurse deals with most of the non-contact aspects of the annual review, doctors being in short supply and available only to deal with weightier matters such as form-filling, negotiating deals with pharmaceutical companies, fending off nit-picking CQC inspectors, preparing their letter of resignation and applying for a visa to work in New Zealand. When disrobement is called for it is usually the doctors who issue abrupt commands.

When asked to undress, it would be helpful if I were told how far to go. Down to the buff? What about my shoes and socks? Do I keep them on or take them off? Is it allowable to hold a shirt in front of my naked personal accoutrements? Have you warmed that vinyl covered couch? Could you pin a photo on the ceiling like the dentist does to distract me from the anguish I am about to endure?

What is the protocol when dealing with female doctors? Why are there so many of them these days? What if the examination is into my nether regions and personal bits and bobs? Is it acceptable to pass funny remarks to ease the embarrassment or do doctors feel any embarrassment? Will I get off lighter if I mention my support for the junior doctors?

There are many posters in the waiting room listing all the debilitating and life threatening ailments that I can feel creeping through my body as I read their dire threats while waiting my turn. It would be more helpful to have a few posters advising me how to deal with personal questions about my sex life, my bowels, my bladder, my alcohol intake and the number of miles I haven’t walked every day. Could she not find a more acceptable way of asking about erectile dysfunction that could be answered with something other than ‘I’ve not had any complaints’ without the destructive follow-up question, ‘how long ago was that?’

How do I accurately recount symptoms when she wants detail and I can give only a vague description made particular by circular movements of my hands and nods of the head towards the sensitive area?

Should I ask her to take into account other lumps, moles, funny pains, aches, rumbling sounds, gas eruptions and muscle spasms? Do I add in my anxieties about all the known diseases that beset me when lying wide awake at 5.00 in the morning with unusual feelings in my chest and arms that cannot be explained by saying I was sleeping on my arm.

How am I supposed to deal with the off-hand comment at the end, - ‘you're fine. Get dressed. Take a seat’. ‘But the pain and the breathlessness doctor?’ I protest. She answers, ‘Lose a stone and you will be fine’.

I stand on the pavement outside, wondering where I parked the car. Should I have mentioned memory loss? I am done for another year! Next up is the car’s MOT. Another unpleasant experience.

After all I went through, I have nothing to show for it other than knowing I have all the bits and pieces I should have and most of them work reasonably well. The dentist at least takes x-rays even though she runs out of the room for shelter as if she knew the machine was in need of maintenance. Maybe I should look into a DIY approach to sustaining my health before the health service has to rely on work experience 6th form students to maintain the surgeries.

At the very least I should be given a certificate of approval to carry through the waiting room so the other victims about to be humiliated will think I had good reason to be there. Or give me a walking stick to use until I reach the front door where I can leave it without being spotted by the dispirited patients waiting their turn. Give me a sense of dignity when I am outside, there was little dignity during the examination.

If you don’t remember Tony Hancock’s blood donor sketch then you are not old enough to suffer these indignities yet. One day a new doctor will notice your date of birth has tripped the signal on the computer and ask, ‘when was the last time you had a regular medical check?’ The writing will then be on your wall.