Fear and fright

Mrs B urged me to go to the doctors. I tried to explain to her: ‘Men prefer to wait until it’s too late. Then they get told it’s too late as well as being advised about what could be done to save them if it wasn’t too late. That’s why so many die so young. Well, before they’re 65.’

‘Huh?’

Yes, I know it is a hard concept for a rational woman to understand, but it prevails amongst men. Leaving things until it’s too late. It takes years of practice and acceptance to master. Trust me. I’m a man and I’m over 65. What can I say?’

‘Why?’

‘Why what, Dearest?’

‘Why won’t you go to the doctors?’

‘Research suggests that men are less likely to go and many of them say they’re too busy to go.’ I hesitate a little. ‘With me, it’s simply fear and fright. Not of you, and not of the doctor.’ I add quickly and smile. ‘And I just don’t want to be a burden to the NHS.’

Mrs B doesn’t smile. She needs a better explanation. I think I just heard her swear quietly to herself. ‘So, if men are not frightened of the doctor, why don’t they go?’

‘It’s what they say that frightens us. Rarely is it good news. We’re not celebrating Notts County getting promoted, are we? We’re going for bad news. It’s always bad news. Bits dropping off, bits not working, bits bending in the middle.’

I think Mrs B is trying hard not to laugh – or is it more of a scoff?

‘Men hold back as well. Some get embarrassed and some are reluctant to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We’d rather clean toilets than go to the doctor’s and talk about our bottoms.

‘In fact, we don’t want to talk about most of our body or our bits or our important organs. Not that our bits aren’t as important as the other parts, but you get the gist.’

‘I do both.’

‘Both?’ I wonder if we’re still talking about bits and organs.

‘Clean the toilet and go to see the doctor.’

I can’t argue with that. Mrs B does indeed do both these things. Also, she can simultaneously cook, clean, decorate, wash, iron, and mow lawns. I too can do all these things, but only one at a time and not as well.

‘Ok, I’ll go.’

‘Good, now ring and make an appointment.’

‘I will… later.’

‘No, now.’

So, reluctantly, I call the doctor, and a few days later I go.

I tell him what’s wrong. The breathlessness, the pain in my arm, the general yuk of it all. Pulse check, brood pressure check, ECG and discussion follow. The news ain't great and it knocks me back. It’s the dreaded heart problems that afflicted and eventually killed my father and his father.

That’s why I was reluctant to go.

I knew there was a problem. But facing up to it and facing up to it in time for treatment? Well, that’s something else.