Some time ago I was rounding in the hospital, and stopped in on Bernard, an eighty year-old man admitted for what I recall to be heart trouble. Bernard seemed to be doing fairly well. He was a somewhat cranky gentleman, but his wife was all Southern courtesy and sweetness. She smoothed over his rough edges. He would say something grumpy, like “the food here is lousy,” and she would follow up with, “he knows he is getting excellent care.”
I think it was all role playing. Like many couples who had been married fifty-plus years, Bernard and his wife had a way of assuming certain characters. He was the demanding one, the one who fussed if there was not enough ice in his drink, and she was the kind one who effusively thanked the waiter for bringing an entire ice pitcher. In real life I suspect he was not as grouchy as he came off and she not as sweet; but together they worked, yin and yang, good cop/bad cop, to get a lot done without offending anyone. They were gifts, each to the other.
In old age people often allow their sense of privacy to lapse. Elderly people can have a lot of medical problems they may need help with, and it does no good to hide from your neighbors your heart condition and the fact that you take fourteen pills a day. You may one day depend on that neighbor to run to the pharmacy to pick up a refill. They might as well know what’s in the bag.
For this reason, I was not surprised that, when I walked into the room, Bernard and his wife Margaret insisted that a neighbor who was visiting stay while I talked to him about his condition. “Don’t worry about it,” Margaret told her. “You are our friend and we have nothing to hide.”
So I initiated my routine. I asked a few basic questions about how he felt, then examined him. At last I began discussing the labwork and diagnostic testing he had undergone in the past few days. As I spoke, his wife asked a few minor questions here and there. She stood up, still listening and talking, and pulled from the nightstand drawer what appeared to be a container of baby powder. She then leaned over her husband’s bed and neatly folded the sheet over his knees, exposing his body. Next she pulled back his hospital gown, bringing his genitalia to full daylight.
In my medical experience I have no doubt seen everything there is to see, so this was no shock. It did seem unusual, though, that Margaret did this in plain sight of the neighbor. Meanwhile Bernard continued to look at me as if he were getting his shoes shined. Margaret produced a large powder puff and began applying the powder in generous quantities to Bernard’s groin. I surmised that Bernard had a skin condition that required dry conditions at all times, and the powder was for this purpose. Again, not unusual, but typically not done in front of the neighbors.
The neighbor, for her part, assumed the same indifference as Mister and Missus, looking calmly back and forth between my face and Bernard’s, glancing to Margaret’s if she happened to interject.
Eventually I concluded my business, and Margaret concluded hers. But, when I conclude my business I usually put my tools away and always cover up exposed goods; for Margaret this seemed of no concern. Bernard remained aired out, as it were; he even nonchalantly crossed his legs at the ankle after the powdering was over and the spread eagle position was no longer required. Margaret sat calmly in a chair at the bedside, palms resting on her knees, her face registering social engagement.
I shook hands with the neighbor, washed my hands and made for the door. It takes all kinds, I told myself, then bowed my head and silently thanked the Lord that Bernard did not have hemorrhoids.