Anna Traverse
The rules of politeness dictate that, as much as possible, we pretend to ignore each other’s — and our own — human bodies. Think of the euphemisms we’ve concocted to avoid talking about, ahem, certain things: You aren’t going to the toilet; you’re visiting the powder room, the restroom, the little boys’ room (that one’s just creepy!), the WC. You’re taking a “bio break,” like you’re some malfunctioning robot carrying a few pesky traces of organic life.
I’ve had the body on my mind lately. I’m fortunate to be a healthy, active woman; to make sure I stay that way, I’ve been spending quality time this spring and summer in the offices of several local medical professionals, reviewing lab-work results, discussing tweaks that can be made, screening for potential problems.
To be honest, and meaning no offense to the many fine doctors I see and the many more on our annual list of Top Doctors … I would rather do just about anything else with my time. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d just as soon not think about the inner complexities of my body. But I know better. I know most issues are best addressed early, and avoiding a potential glitch doesn’t make it disappear.
I also know that my own family medical history could put me at higher risk (or maybe not!) of future problems. My mother died of cancer of unknown origin when she was 51; my father of a sarcoma at 64. Neither of their relatives suffered from cancer, and yet — and yet. There’s no explaining what happened to either of them; both were fit and seemingly healthy before their diagnoses, and both grew agonizingly ill, incredibly quickly. The medical consensus seems to be: huh. Terrible luck … twice? Environmental contaminants? No one knows.
So it’s little wonder that my feelings about medical upkeep would be complicated. Staying vigilant is especially important for me — but the apparent randomness of both my parents’ illnesses could easily push me toward a fatalist sense of “why bother?” At different points, I’ve veered between both extremes. Presently, I’m on the side of vigilance, but trying to keep the vigilance from careening into hypochondria! (Before you ask: Yes, I have considered genetic testing; no, I have not decided if it’s right for me; no, I am not seeking input.)
As I grow older, I’m learning the importance of individual choice both in choosing doctors and in working with those doctors. It’s taken me years, but I’ve finally realized that I need to investigate my medical team, not just be investigated by them. And this realization has been right on time, as I’m reaching the age where I have not just one doctor but a variety of specialists. That makes it easier, in a way, to determine which advice to heed, and which can be questioned — or, in other words, to trust my own intuition.
As we do each June, this month we are sharing a peer-reviewed list of some of the top doctors of the greater Memphis area. Not every excellent doctor appears on this list, but it is a helpful resource if you are interested in building or expanding your own crew of health experts.
A colleague jokes that when he gets together with buddies of a certain age, their conversations become “organ recitals” as they enumerate various bodily woes. He didn’t coin this usage of the phrase, but I had not heard it until he apologized for delivering such a recital. Talking about our bodies, is, after all, often thought to be a little gauche, a little gross.
But I wonder if we aren’t approaching this wrong. Everyone reading this is having a bodily experience right now: the texture and temperature of your chair or couch, the surface of the floor beneath your feet, the emptiness or satiety of your stomach, the ache in your right knee, the allergies tickling your throat. Why are we so reluctant to talk about it? We act as though others would be alarmed to learn (whodathunk?!) that we are just as thoroughly, delightfully, uncomfortably embodied as they are.
What if — as an experiment — we could be a little more candid about the whole mess? Within reason, I guess, which will mean different things to different people — but I tend to think that what we might lose in decorum, we would gain in empathy.
And I don’t know about you, but the scary scenarios I invent in my head usually feel less scary once I say them aloud to someone who understands. My own mind can be like a dark room, where any shadow becomes a monster; sharing with someone else — a qualified medical professional or just a trusted friend — is like switching on the lights.
