“There is no curing a sick man who believes himself to be in health.”

- Henry Amiel

September is upon us and with it comes a few yearly appointments that I always dread. The big two are my car needing to get inspected, and, much to my chagrin, so does my body. The car is still an uncertainty, so that just leaves me to regale you with my trip to the doctor. And what a tale I have to tell.

I got to the office and started what turned out to be a half hour of filling out forms that asked all sorts of questions such as, do I have kidney or heart problems, any allergies that I am aware of? And, oddly enough, am I pregnant?

I always worry when they ask this because I'm about to put my health in the hands of people that obviously don't understand simple biology. Yet I digress.

After scribbling my name repeatedly I start to wonder if I won't end up with carpal tunnel by the time I'm through verifying my medical history. Once done, I am escorted to a room where I strip down and don a “gown” which leaves nothing to the imagination, and I sit on the table covered in wax paper with a gentle breeze running along my now exposed backside.

And in walked the doctor. Traditionally, my physicals aren't that big a deal. Just the usual “Say ahh”s get my eyes and ears stared into. Then of course there's the ole “grab and cough,” but now that I'm pushing the upper limits of 30, he wants to do a more, how shall I put this, “in depth” examination.

Everything seemed pretty kosher until I heard the snap of the glove and I knew our doctor patient relationship would never be the same again. Don't get me wrong, my doctor's a nice guy and all, but the procedure he had to conduct would get a person arrested in some states. He then tells me, “Sorry, this might be a little cold.” And while I appreciated the empathy, at that precious moment the temperature wasn't my greatest concern, but rather whether or not I'd remember the “safe word.”

It only lasted about five seconds, but from my vantage point it seemed like forever. Foolishly thinking my troubles were over, the nurse then walked in with what looked like the tackle box for Jack the Ripper and suggested that I try to relax as she proceeded to poke at my veins like she was drilling for oil. How relaxed can you be while someone is jamming a piece of steel in your arm? And then it hit me, this is why they wanted to know if I was pregnant. It wasn't that they were foolish, they just needed to be sure, because as soon as she inserted that needle, I was crying like a little girl.

And why did I endure these traumas? Why, to be healthy of course. After all, imagine what they'd do if I was sick!

Auburn native Bradley Molly's column appears here each

Sunday. He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com