Lab Coats and the Tiny Green Art Smock

I’m thinkin’ I’m invisible. Yup. Invisible. I drive a big black truck but no one sees me on the road. I go out to eat with my wife and get the humbling feeling that I’m making noises like the teacher from a Snoopy cartoon when I talk. And last night one of the shedders that I share my home with (under protest) ran headlong into my leg as I stood in the kitchen.

Invisible.

I’ve reached the not so enviable point in life where young people stare vacantly or roll their eyes when I talk, middle-agers tune me out, and short-timers crash into me when I stand patiently in checkout lines. No kidding, it’s as if when oldies reach the age of AARP, lime green spandex, and fear of bathing they lose all sense of spatial awareness. The other day I had a large heavy-breathing older fella stand so close behind me in line at the post office that I could feel his hot McDonalds breath on the back of my head. And I checked my wallet a few times because whatever he had in his hand – I’m hoping mail – kept touching the back of my pants.

 

Invisible. Irrelevant?

Now there’s the anything goes approach to the once privacy of doctor appointments. There’s a new trend, maybe an expectation from the medical profession… and society…that privacy only pertains to department store changing rooms and proof of citizenship. Or maybe it’s just me.

For a couple of years now, when I go to any doctor appointment I’m met with an entourage of shiny smiling newbies, eager to practice on an apparently docile and understanding participant. Me. Because I’ve supposedly reached the age of hopeless surrender. I feel like the old-guy science subject in the opening scene of Young Frankenstein who’s been dragged in front of a group of students in a lecture hall.

I get it. I understand that nurses and med students need to gain experience and be trained in a wide array of human nakedness. But wouldn’t it be more appropriate to ask if it’s ok rather than just assume that I’m completely comfortable with having a trainee at the stick?

And I mean “stick” literally. I went to the doctor for my monthly allergy shot (which may or may not do anything more than give me a psychological edge over ragweed and cats). I was met by a new face. My go-to kind, caring and experienced shot-giver, Joan, was off. “I’m filling in today,” the young woman said, as she yanked up and stretched the sleeve of my polo shirt over my shoulder. (For the rest of the day I made the fashion statement of having one bell-bottomed short sleeve.)

She whispered to an attendant, who I learned was observing to be sure she was doing things correctly. And then came the needle stick. Typically an allergy shot is a painless mosquito-bite experience, with the needle penetrating just under the skin in the back of my arm (“subcutaneous”). This one felt like a punch from my big brother when I was ten.

She stuck the needle straight into my tricep muscle. I said, “That kinda hurt. I think you jabbed that into my muscle. Is that ok?”

The young “trainee” ignored me, turning to her handler and said, “Well, he doesn’t have a lot of skin.”

I’M A MAMMAL! I’m in shape and kinda trim but I have skin… a veritable pelt of target opportunity! But again, my fault. Tight skin. Bad for shots. Bad training skin.

Apparently the entire healthcare system has moved to the training arena. It’s like Spring, when there seems to be a surge of eager student drivers…sitting too close to the wheel…moving slowly…tentatively…using their turn signals too much.

Last year I showed up for my annual physical. My doctor’s nurse ran the pre-exam routine about overall health; taking my temperature, blood pressure, and asked a series of questions about alcohol and drug abuse and whether anyone was “hurting” me. She then reminded me that my doc is “thorough” and requires complete nakedness. My previous doctor allowed the humility of underpants…until absolutely necessary…and then performed any exam south of the border quickly and without making eye contact. I was however, offered a pale green art smock sized for a third-grader.

My doc came in a short time later followed by an attractive young woman who looked to be in her late twenties. He said hello, shook my hand, and said that he was being “shadowed” by a student and asked if it would be ok for her to participate.

Participate. What could “participate” mean?

I declined. But as always my words got ahead of my brain and for some reason I felt it necessary to explain. What awkwardly came out of my mouth was, “Uh… no… humiliation at the hands of one woman is enough.”

My doctor was understanding and the student, though seemingly disappointed at the lost opportunity for comparative analysis, smiled and excused herself from the exam room.

A good friend had his annual physical exam a couple of weeks after mine. He said that he allowed a student participant. “Well they gotta learn sometime,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.” But then he went on to explain that when it came time for the dreaded over-fifty south-of-the-border probe, he got a “two-fer.” He said that after his doctor did a quick check, he then gave the student a guided tour that seemed to take a really long time.

Now every time I see my friend I get the mental image of my German Shepherd getting his temperature taken by the vet…looking over his shoulder with his ears pinned back and that vulnerably pathetic “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” look on his face.

Maybe it would make a difference if the med trainee experience was free. I have high out of pocket health insurance. I’ve forced myself to believe that premium pricing should come with premium service. But there’s no way for them to know. When I’m standing in line with a group of apparently homeless people in dirty coats and pajama bottoms to check in for an appointment, all the receptionists see are heads; like lifeguards staring into a crowded pool of bobbing humanity.

Maybe if they gave stickers at check-in! Yeah, a sticker that I could put on my shirt that let the nurses and doctors know that I’m paying way too much to be a training platform. You know, like flying first class to rate a forced smile and extra bag of peanuts from a stewardess.

That wouldn’t be “FAIR!” The pajama crowd would be outraged. There’d be protests and editorials about the stickered medical one-percenters. Bernie Sanders would miss the point and demand that everyone get a sticker!

It wouldn’t work anyway. I’m kinda hairy. Where would I put a sticker for an appointment that required nakedness?” Maybe a little inconspicuous dollar sign rubber hand stamp…

Nah, I guess I’ll just continue to decline as I sit bashfully on the edge of an exam table in my little green art smock.