A birthdays problem

“Hi, I phoned to wish you a Happy Birthday, how are you going to celebrate?”
“Thank you,” said my friend, “but why should I celebrate that?”
“Oh! Errrr, well, umm. I thought you Lebanese celebrated everything.”
“We do,” she said, “except getting older!”

I can understand that, having arrived at a point in life when I seem to have to go in for a service more often than the car. Problem is that a human has rather more moving parts and getting spares is pretty difficult. That means the orders of the day are to exercise, support and if necessary kick-start those aging bits you were born with, not to mention getting them checked out from time to time.

Women are supposed to be better at submitting to these check-out procedures than men, particularly those who have had children. I suppose that being able to react positively and without embarrassment to “put your legs in those stirrups so I can check how many fingers dilated you are” provides a pretty steep learning curve in juggling the warring needs of modesty, dignity and successful bodily function and having to accept that it’s the last that usually wins, at least when visiting the doctor.

Now I promised there would be no “adult content” in this blog. Here’s hoping that sharing with you which body parts just got the once over won’t breach that. Being of the male persuasion, as well as the obvious external differences, there’s a “men only” gland – the prostate – hidden from view with which I came equipped. It’s done its job quite happily down the years without let, hindrance or complaint, I even have two children to show for it. Thank you Mr. P. But some numbers on the results of a recent blood test made my doctor rather worried that I hadn’t ever had it checked. The numbers were my date of birth. So, yesterday was the day.

After close questioning about diurnal, nocturnal and urinal habits it was “OK, drop your shorts and get on the bed”: in other contexts that might have sounded inviting but not here. A trained urologist donning rubber gloves has the sort of effect I imagine is only just shy of the one produced on a Middle Ages heretic seeing the Iron Maiden trundled out for his personal benefit.

“Aaarrggh,” I gasped; “testicles all right then” said the doctor (while I had previously thought that that was so, I was glad of the reassurance that energetic palpating would leave no lasting damage). The prostate, although an internal organ, is in fact accessible for examination, so next came “turn over and face the wall” and that which I had always thought of as a one way street to the rubbish tip had traffic in the opposite direction. And then it was all over. “Well, my friend, do you want the verdict? You haven’t got a twenty year old prostate any longer, but there’s nothing wrong with it for its age”.

A few years ago I needed mild treatment from a physiotherapist for a sports injury. “I’ve played tennis for years,” I said “and never suffered from this before, why now?” Came the reply, complete with broad Aussie twang “it’s just a birthdays problem, mate”.

Maybe I should think about not celebrating mine either.

No, no, I don’t mean it, please keep the cards and chocolates and champagne coming!