True tales of life in trucking volume 4

by Glenn
(Oregon)

One of the requirements to operate full size trucks on the highways, and byways of this great land of ours, is being in possession of a valid Medical Certificate. These are acquired by undergoing a vigorous medical examination which can include, but is not limited to, very pointed suggestions about how to improve your overall health. Little changes in your daily routine, like keeping your heart rate at a constant 200 beats per minute for a few hours a day, may be suggested. Ways to achieve these goals with only subtle changes in daily activities, can range from hoisting manhole covers, to light mining. A sure way to disappoint your health care provider, is to tell him, or her, that you would be more comfortable just going for short little walks. This will automatically trigger the diet speech, upon conclusion of a simultaneous head shake, and eye roll. Diets are fairly simple. There is no reason to commit to memory the calorie count of an apple peel, or to be able to rattle off the sodium content of tree bark. The most fundamental rule of thumb is, if you put it in your mouth, and you like it, spit it out, you are not supposed to be eating it. The doctor is a skilled professional, who feels a profound responsibility to be thorough, do not expect your diet training to be quite that brief. A special thing is added to your exam upon reaching 50 years old. When I was 49, after the exercise and diet portion of the exam was safely behind me,

those happen every time for me by the way, we moved on to checking vision, hearing, and vital signs. At 50 when we finally reached this point, I noticed that while I reached for my jacket, the Doc was reaching for a rubber glove. He explained that at my age it was extremely important that I undergo a prostate exam. For him, this may have been just another routine visit, but to me, it seemed like this should have been preceded by heavily administered anesthetic, and an enthusiastic test of The Emergency Broadcast System. Weeping did nothing to save me from this most intimate, and savage violation. When I was able to regain an upright position, a brief visual sweep of the office failed to detect the 3 and a half feet of galvanized pipe I expected to find. Trying to thread my arms into the sleeves of my jacket, while shaking like an apoplectic crack baby, proved more of a challenge than I was up to. I thought that a grown man crying, and dragging his jacket across the parking lot by one sleeve, would evoke pity, or at least interest in witnesses, but apparently the people I encountered had seen a 50 year old get his DOT physical before. Is it just me, or would you agree that when you go and see the Doctor feeling great, you shouldn’t leave with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? I know one thing, when I see the F/U on the invoice, it would take an insanely talented salesman to convince me it means follow up.