Dr. Charles writes about his visit to the doctor. Thanks for sharing this personal and enlightening story:

The doctor returned to the room. My heart beat, my lungs expanded and contracted, my mouth opened. I lied down. He pressed on my various organs harder than I had done. There was some discomfort. I hoped that was natural. I forgot whether it was. I rolled over on my left side, pulled down my boxer-briefs, and drew my legs up. I felt the gears spinning in reverse, the corkscrew turning in the wooden cork, and marveled at how my rectum and prostate were being simultaneously experienced by my own brain and the brain on the other end of the examining finger.

I sat up, the assessment had been completed. We talked about things. He had a very warm manner, and that combined with his expertise had been the reason I chose to see him of all the specialists I've recommended to others in the past. "I think your problem is most likely infectious, and that it's resolving now, but I can't rule out the bad stuff without doing a few tests. Anyway, don't worry... if you ever need anything please page me directly, okay?"

I shook his hand vigorously. The seal of hypocrisy had been broken, and I had been reinitiated into the world of the patient. It was not such a bad place after all. It certainly helped to alleviate my dread, and should something be truly wrong I would not be flailing around, helplessly alone in my own paranoid medical mind. I was given a pin near the end of medical school. Its golden-lettered imperative read: "Humanism in Medicine." Having relinquished my control, having divulged my inner secrets and fears, having surrendered my body for examination, I realized that humanism projected through the fingerpads, the eyes, and the words of the doctor is truly essential.