I am a man my age. One would think that was intuitively obvious. One would be wrong. I became a man my age sometime after turning forty, which was only a couple of years shy of three decades ago now. Around that time, I took a fitness test at the health club I joined.
The tester put me on a treadmill. He measured the steady climb of my pulse and breathing as he increased the speed and incline of the machine. He also checked my flexibility and strength and took a number of other readings. After feeding all of the data into a computer and comparing my scores to those of other club members and the population norms he pronounced that I was in good shape … {pause} … for a man my age.
He couldn’t just leave it at “you’re in good shape.” Oh, no. He had to add that qualifier, “for a man your age.” Up to that point I hadn’t realized I was a man my age. Of course, I knew that I was a man and a specific age. I just hadn’t realized, at least not on a conscious level, that it was an age that deserved any particular attention.
Still a Man My Age
It didn’t end there. My eyes required corrective lenses since my undergraduate days in university. (I probably should have gotten glasses or contacts before then, but in many university lecture halls the front of the room was farther from my preferred backseat than in high school classrooms. Surprising, I found that being able to read what’s on the board/screen at the front is helpful in the learning process.)
I’ve always had a self-deprecating nature, so I naturally assumed my vision was worse than just about every other sighted person. Not so. I’m happy to report that my optometrist has since told me that my eyes weren’t really all that bad … for a man my age. Although, as tends to happen, my age keeps advancing. So that’s a moving target.
Next it was my dentist’s turn. I’ve seen enough old people with bad or no teeth that it should have occurred to me, but I never thought of teeth as something that degraded all that much with age. However, according to my dentist, I had reasonably good teeth … you guessed it … for a man my age. Again, subject to the advancing age caveat.
Slothful Hypochondriac
I’m a slothful hypochondriac. I always assume, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that I have some terrible ailment, but I’m far too lazy to do anything about it.
The Canadian healthcare system probably appreciates my indolence. Otherwise, with basic health insurance being universal and tax-funded, I would bankrupt the system if I acted on all of my concerns. As a result of my laziness (and my fear of medical professionals; one of my many anxieties), there was a period of at least fifteen years during which I had not seen a doctor.
Colonoscopy
That period ended when I had an honest-to-goodness physical symptom that was impossible to ignore no matter how hard I tried. It was a symptom that the cancer society says you shouldn’t ignore under any circumstances. I didn’t.
Fortunately, after a test that involved snaking an exceptionally long tube into places that an inanimate object other than food waste in the process of being discarded—or, for that matter, an animate object that is not one of my internal organs or organisms—has no right being, I learned that my dread certainty that I had cancer was unfounded. A simple hemorrhoid caused the symptom.
With my long medical abstinence ended, my new doctor, the one who sent me off for the colonoscopy, suggested that it was time for a general physical exam. I consented and learned two things. First, once a man turns 40, annual physicals, which I now usually have every fourteen to eighteen months, include a procedure that isn’t part of the regular routine for men younger than that.
The procedure involves a gloved finger and a backside. It’s known as a digital rectal exam (DRE). Unfortunately, the finger belongs to my doctor and the backside is mine. It would be much less painful, but equally vulgar, if it were the other way around*.
The other thing I learned is that I was in pretty good health — for a man my age.
Age Advances. (Until it Doesn’t)
In the nearly three decades since I heard my first favourable age-dependent diagnosis, I’ve remained in all aspects of good shape for a man my age. Did I mention, for a man my age?
In that time, I obviously passed a couple more decade milestones. Upon turning 50, regular colonoscopies became a thing for me. I’ve had three age-related colonoscopies after that first symptom-related one. The first of the three was also clear. The second removed two benign polyps. The polyps led my gastroenterologist to tell me to get colonoscopies every five, rather than every ten years. Oh, joy. Oh, bliss.
My most recent colonoscopy was again clear. So, in that regard, I’m still healthy for a man my age. Although, my gastroenterologist still wants me to have a colonoscopy every five, rather than every ten years. Again, oh, joy. Oh, bliss.
(At least, I’m Canadian. The colonoscopies don’t cost me a cent, which is a good thing because we got rid of pennies here a few years ago. I can’t imagine being asked to pay for that torture.)
A Postate for the Ages
I recently learned I have an enlarged prostrate*. After determining that it was benign, my doctor informed me that, oh, that’s common, “for a man your age.”
Gee. Thanks, doc.
Cheating at Being a Man My Age
From now on, whenever I see a healthcare practitioner for the first time I’m going to lie about my age. I’m going to tell him or her that I’m twenty years older than I actually am just so that, no matter how decrepit my body gets, I can keep hearing the compliments. The downside is that I’m going to become suicidal if, after lying about how old I am, I ever hear, “You’re in terrible shape for a man your age.”
* That doctor was great, but he retired. I got another doctor, but he moved to a small town a couple of hours drive away. My current doctor doesn’t believe in DREs. Instead, to check the size of my prostate more accurately, she sent me to for an ultrasound of it. That’s a thoroughly disgusting story for another time. Suffice it to say, I used to hate DREs with an off-the-scale intensity, but I, apparently, was such a wuss.
