It was time for my annual physical and as I waited in the examining room, I was examining the credentials of the new doctor in the practice. Seeing that he was a graduate of a medical school on a Caribbean island I was immediately concerned, not because I had never heard of the school but because I had never heard of the island.
My apprehension deepened when the doctor swept into the room He was shaped liked Humpty Dumpty and reeked of cigarette smoke. He had a bushy unkempt beard and I have no doubt that anyone who was so inclined could have found a stray French fry or two in that beard, and probably an olive from his last martini.
After the most perfunctory of greetings he started to go over my test results, and informed me that my blood pressure is excellent, my liver and kidneys are functioning perfectly and that I have the prostate of a man half my age. In addition, he noted sourly, my cholesterol profile is excellent.
As he was going down the list, I have to admit I began feeling quite smug that my diet and exercise routine was keeping me healthy. I said as much to the doctor and what he said brought me back to earth with a jolt. “Excuse me?” I said politely.
He sighed. ”I said that you should remember that half of all middle-aged men who die of heart attacks have normal cholesterol.” He nodded vigorously. “Yep. One day you’re running on the treadmill and then BAM!” He clapped his hands together so hard I jumped. “Lights out,” he said, smiling.
“That really happens?” I asked. “It happens all the time,” he said darkly. “Why do you think gyms have defibrillators everywhere?” I stared at him. “We doctors like to say it’s hard to treat heart disease because the main symptom is sudden death.” He laughed out loud.
As he continued, I began to sense that the doctor disapproved of regular exercise: “If it isn’t the heart, it’s the kidneys,” he said. “You work out really hard and your kidneys just quit. You’re dead in 24 hours. Or you blow out your knees. Or you hurt your back and live in excruciating pain. You call that ‘healthy’?” he demanded.
I suspected that the good doctor’s tropical university either did not offer a curriculum in “bedside manner” or that he dropped that class; I have never felt worse about being healthy.
When the doctor talked about the futility of eating healthy, (“Why bother? In 50 years you’ll be dead anyway.”) my mind started to wander. On one hand, since his monumental girth and cigarette smoking habit had totally destroyed his credibility, it was a good thing that he did not lecture me on clean living. On the other, I felt strongly that he was an idiot who was only one Value Meal away from a stroke of his own.
After the consultation I left his office as fast as I could while my heart, knees and kidneys were still functioning. Impulsively, I decided to celebrate my good news by going out to dinner. The irony of celebrating my good health at the Cheesecake Factory was not lost on me, but I didn’t care.
Later that evening as I ordered some Oreo cheesecake, I thought of that porcine physician. What are the odds that I would find the one doctor in the South Florida who disapproved of a healthy diet and regular exercise? Clearly, the man has some issues, I thought, knowing that this physician could not even heal himself.