Standardized patienting

Practice                                   

Three times today I had full physical exams

done by first-year medical students. They each began

by palpating my skull, each saying

“Tell me if this hurts.”

Their fingers are young and still soft like teenagers

learning what it is to touch,

but already theirs are not just fingers but

measuring instruments

calibrated to seek and discover abnormalities

on my head. I look in their eyes,

at their widening pupils

as they pull down my lower lids; one says,

“Good pink,” as she examines my conjunctiva

and I wonder if she knows something I don’t;

I can see her tender eyebrows which express

concerns of memory; “What am I missing?”

her eyebrows seem to say, which reminds me she’s not close

to being a real doctor, just a recent child

trying to convince herself of what she hopes she knows,

while my expression tries to convince her

that my wrinkled, mottled skin was,

not that long ago, young.

“I will listen to heart sounds now,”

she says, after asking my permission

to untie my gown, “so breathe normally,”

but how do I breathe normally

when thinking about my heart and its sounds

and feeling the cold stethoscope

and smelling her antiseptic fingers

and curious whether my heart

sounds different from other hearts

and how I wish she might value my heart, my unique heart,

my healthy old heart? Finally, after a series

of neurological tests—my eyes following

her shaking fingers; my eyes closed

while standing with my hands out palms up,

rocking on the balls of my feet; then she says

“Do you mind if I remove your socks?”

and rubs a rubber claw along my leathery soles—

I return to sit on the examining table,

yanking at my gown above my knees.

She stares at the floor, and I know

she’s silently cataloging my organs.

She nods, twice, and taps my shoulder goodbye.