The Half-Naked Truth

This morning I spent some time with a physiotherapist after my doctor said I had something called benign vertigo. Without sounding callous, I was pleased with the diagnosis because it meant that I could get help and that maybe I could illicit some sympathy from my wife and daughters. I wanted sympathy from them because when I pouted and told my sister in the most serious and saddest voice I have that I've been "diagnosed", she rolled her eyes and laughed because that is what oldest sisters do to younger brothers. She loves me, but in this case she thought I was a sap. She is probably right, but "come on" I say, vertigo sounds serious. So I was sent to the physiotherapist hoping the doctor would tell me how serious this was and write me a note I could bring back to my sister saying she needs to feel sorry for her sappy little brother.

When I got to the physiotherapist's office, I had to fill out a plethora of forms that forced me to take inventory of my life, asking me everything from ‘do I smoke?’ (No, but I tried to teach myself by smoking newspapers behind my house when I was in third grade) to ‘drug use?’ (I did take a half-a -sleeping pill last week) to sexual activity (sorry, I’m a conservative dutch reformed kid and we don’t talk about that in public—or even in private). I never mind waiting in these rooms because it is the one opportunity I can read—guilt free—an old People magazine with some stale celebrity gossip. But there was not a magazine in sight; not even a chart on the wall to see every bone, vein, and muscle that sits under my skin.

The only doctors I’ve been to in my life have all been male. When I had shoulder surgery, a woman did have to shave my arm pit and that was as personal as I need to be with a woman in the medical community. I know, I'm a prude, but I don't deny it and I accept it. But sometimes we don’t choose these things, so when a woman walked through the door and told me to take my shirt off, well my palms got clammy and my back started to sweat. The more I try to tell myself not to sweat, the clammier I get. This can’t be good!

This doctor, she just stares at me and tells me to turn in a circle, stand on one leg, walk a straight line, close my eyes and touch my finger to my nose—at this point I wonder if I am a circus animal. 'Do I really need to have my shirt off for this?' is what I am thinking. She is just making me do tricks. I look for a spinning wheel so I can do my hampster routine. We move to a large room where other are quietly doing their exercise, and I am acutely aware of how loud my doctor’s voice is.

The next part of my routine requires me to take ten paces and turn in a circle and stare at her nose. I do as I am told because she just doesn’t seem like someone you argue with. We are about 25 feet apart when I stop and turn when, because apparently 20 feet is a significant distance and because she thinks everyone in the room needs to hear this, she yells “You really are crooked.”

I don’t have a lot of experience with doctors, but I wasn’t sure if I was walking crooked or standing crooked, but I could only think of one thing to say, “I don’t know what that means.”

Then this doctor, thinking that ‘I don’t know what that means’ sounds like ‘I can’t hear you’ yells, and it really was yelling, ‘Have you ever stared at yourself in a mirror? you are totally a-symmetrical. You have scoliosis because you have a crooked spine, one of your shoulders is lower than the other, your right ear is higher than your left ear, and your left eye lid droops a lot lower than the other. But you don’t have vertigo.”

My conservative dutch-kid roots kick in again. I am suddenly keenly aware that about fifteen people are staring at me—me in my dress pants, nice shoes, and no shirt. I am a half-naked Christian school teacher with clammy palms and a completely crooked body and wherever I look I can’t find my dignity. And it feels like they are all nodding their head in agreement of this diagnosis! Back, shoulder, ears and eyes, I make a song in my head to the tune of “head and shoulders, knees and toes” but it doesn’t make me laugh or smile or sweat less. I am suddenly 80 years old and wishing that all I had was vertigo.

I find myself thinking about Psalm 19 where it states that the heavens declare the glory of God…and if that is true, and I know it is, I wonder what my crooked body is declaring. In the car on the way back to school I stare in the mirror and wonder how I can fix my droopy eye lid. So I don't have vertigo, and I think I'm thankful for that although this certainly won't help me get more sympathy from my eye-rolling sister the next time I pout and tell her I'm sick.