I think the insurance companies hire retired GPs as their
itinerant “medical examiners”. It’s great that they come to you, though I can’t
help thinking that, one way or another, you wind up paying for it.
Anyway, this morning was my turn to be examined for mortgage
insurance. An elderly, wheezingly asthmatic, trousers slung loosely beneath his
low-hanging gut, gentleman appeared at the door, umbrella in one hand and black
plastic suitcase in the other. It was pouring with rain, and I felt slightly
sorry for him, but I imagine he’s handsomely paid for a task that’s not very
demanding.
First a battery of questions – my parents, my siblings, my
general health, any medication, any recent doctor’s visits.
Then he conducted a fairly comprehensive exam, continuously
pulling yet more instruments out of his apparently bottomless case.
Bathroom scales, to weigh me – 12st 12lbs (which doesn’t
mean anything to me these days unless I convert it into 180lbs).
“Is this about the same as you weighed a year ago?”
“I don’t know – I never weigh myself.”
Then out with a grubby tape measure. Waist 36” (“It’s
allowed for you to breathe in, if you like”), hips 38”. As he leaned close to
me, I could smell tobacco on his clothes.
“How tall are you?”
“About 6’1” or 6’2”.”
“Hmmm …”, looking me up and down, “… I’ll give you 6’1”.”
Then the blood pressure, pulse (squinting at his wristwatch
– I suppose this is not an exact science), and blowing into a tube (twice,
because “most people do better the second time”) – all “within normal limits”.
Of course, there was the obligatory stethoscope to listen to my chest and back
– all normal.
“Now a test of manual dexterity and coordination – take this
plastic tub and pee in it. Leave it in the bathroom, and I’ll test it in
there”.
My aim was perfect.
Now the mouth swab – to make sure I was a non-smoker. All
the time, he was complaining about excessive packaging on the disposable items,
and about the inclusion of instructions with each:
“If I didn’t know how to do a blood test, I damned well
shouldn’t be doing it!”
“Any operations?”
“Just tonsils when I was 7.”
“Vasectomy?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Everyone forgets that one.”
“But it was in the States, in the doctor’s surgery – not
really an operation.”
Judging from his expression, that’s not normal over here.
“Oh well, prevents the worst STD – children!”
I managed to crack a smile. I suspect the same jokes are
trotted out at every exam.
Then I had to lie down on the sofa, and loosen my pants.
Press here, press there, “Breathe in deeply,” “Cough.” Take the pulse at my
ankles.
“Have to do all this – you look as though you have good
circulation, but if I don’t check, one day I’ll report good circulation to
extremities, and the guy will have a wooden leg!”
Then a check of my reflexes, arms and legs.
“Well, I can’t think of anything else nasty to do to you,
and everything looks ok.”
He re-packed his disheveled suitcase, hitched up his pants
which were by now sliding dangerously low, slung his jacket over his arm,
grabbed his umbrella, and disappeared out into the mostly abated rain.
