‘This won’t hurt a bit’: Why adults become kids when doctors are concerned

Bowel Cancer Awareness Month is upon us. Campaign ads urge those of us of a certain age to keep our government-supplied poo test close to our chest. “Leave it on the floor,” they suggest, “on the toilet seat, on the bench, so you’ll never forget it when you have to go”. I’m reminded of all the wise little indignities to which we humans must submit to keep the body afloat.

When we enter the realm of tests and procedures, I reckon we come closest to the little child within than at any other time in our adult life. And most of us, even big brave assertive types, are curiously compliant, often to strangers, when they ask us to do preposterous things.

Like my new ophthalmologist the other day. A tall, good-looking man with a love of fresh air and rhythm and blues. “Lie back in this chair”, Dr Handsome said, interrupting Sunnyland Slim. “I’m just going to inject a steroid into your eye. Is that okay? Now don’t blink.”

Then there was the eye surgeon who, having tended to a hole in my macula – how do you even get a hole there? – insisted that I spend the next 10 days lying on my right side so that the gas bubble he’d inserted wouldn’t move about. Gas bubble? Ten days? On my side? Naturally, I obeyed. Doctor knows best.

And it’s because we think that doctor knows best that we’re so submissive. These people have spent six-plus years slogging it out over mucous membranes and fatty intestines. Who are we to question their wisdom? In them we must trust because we don’t know the first thing about holey maculas and dicky knees.

I reckon the female species is far more accustomed to prognostic proddings than blokes. That’s because women usually want to know if something’s wrong with them and men usually don’t. (And there’s the little fact that we do give birth to the human race.)

Women face a heap of medical indignities which, seen in isolation, surely belong to a Franz Kafka play. “Come over to the machine, bend forward, then back, and I’ll just squeeze your left breast into the shape of a pancake.” I’m sure that’s what the BreastScreen ladies mutter under their breath when you front up on the day. And so, you do it.

And you even do regular pap tests because you’re a law-abiding citizen who’s listened to the warnings. You lie on the bed, locking your knees together as firmly as a chastity belt until the doctor tells you to relax. “What are you planning to do for the holidays?” she asks, coming at you with a steel speculum the size of Japanese pumpkin.