The Physical

"Mr. Sawyer we're ready for you," says the nurse as she ushers my dad back to the scale. Fully clothed, including his big, black, suedish shoes, which could very well weight a full pound within themselves, the scale reads 125 lbs. I think to myself, how long it has been since the scale read that for me even in the nude. The nurse leads both of us to his little room. We wait. I read my magazine. Pop files his finger nails.

Soon the nurse appears again and begins taking his blood pressure, inserts a thermometer into his mouth as she scribbles on her note pad. Up, onto the exam table he goes as she continues to check and scribble. With his feet hanging off the end of the exam table I note that he is wearing two unmatched socks and he has on a very shabby shirt and a not-so-clean pair of jeans. I should have helped him dress this morning, I think to myself. Before leaving the room the nurse instructs my dad to take everything off except his underwear and hands him a white paper, drape to put around his lower torso to use after he has disrobed. Not wanting to see more then my eyes are prepared to handle, I leave the room hoping he will remember all the instructions. He remembers to open the door when he is undressed but there is no drape wrapped around the lower torso. His white toothpick legs appear to hang from the openings up his tighty whities and I grab the wrap and hand it back to him. He wraps it around his waist and like clothes pins, takes his two fingers and holds it at his back. The office AC is running colder then it needs to, so I drape his tan, signature sweater, around his shoulders. Soon he asks if he can put his shirts back on. "No, the doctor needs for you to be dressed down for the physical," I remind him.

After several chilly minutes, the doctor appears and begins a rather monotone line of questioning about urination, eating and sleeping habits, what medications Pop is taking and how often. Three, only three medications is my answer to his last question. As he continues to tap, tap, tap on his computer the questions go on. Does my dad wear pull ups, does he have accidents, does he dress and bathe himself, feed himself? The answers being, no, no, yes, yes, and yes, I think to myself how grateful I am that I can give those responses. Helping Pop up onto the exam table the poking and prodding begins; stethoscope moves over his loose, pale, skin around the heart and lungs region. As I sit watching and answering the emotionless questions that are tossed in my direction, I think to myself how truly amazing it is that at age 87 my dad is only taking three medications ... and how impersonal this whole experience is turning out to be as we are moved along in assembly line fashion. By the time the exam is over, the doctor has eliminated the third prescription saying that he does not believe it to be necessary. I comment on how amazingly healthy my dad is for his age and Dr. "Bland" as I have now mentally nick named him, returns my comment with a preoccupied nod.

I am asked to leave the room, for which I am very grateful, so the examination can move into a more private type of prodding. Shortly the door opens and I see that my dad is fully dressed in his grungy jeans, shabby shirt, mismatched socks, and of course his great big suedish black shoes.

The decision is made to do his labs without a fast and we are then taken to another room where we wait for the nurse to draw blood. My dad is patient, doesn't complain and asks very few questions. Once the blood is drawn, he is told to pee in a cup. He says to me, "What?" In ear shot of all who are in the office, I am obliged to raise my voice so he can hear and tell him, "You have to pee in the cup, Pop." With my dad following we head for the restroom. I help him find the cup and restate the instructions. Do I have to write my dad's name on the cup once it has been used, I think to myself? It becomes obvious that, yes, I do need to do that for the office staff and for my dad. I close the bathroom door and hope that when I return I will find a somewhat full cup. It is not full, but looks sufficient. Why didn't I think to write his name on the cup before he peed in it, I think to myself? Meeting one final time with Doctor "Bland," I get final instructions on salve for a couple of sores, vitamins, when he wants to see Pop again and out the door we go, heading for the front desk. Daddy follows obediently, hands me my umbrella and soon we are out in the humid, cloudy, summer, afternoon. As we move on to our final stops of the early evening, I think to myself, - This could be so much worse then it is. Thank you Lord for my dad's good health, his reasonable disposition and even for Dr. "Bland."