A Close Encounter of Japankind

Although the Japanese countryside may predominantly be as ignorant to all things modern as a Dickensian hobo, a visit to the doctor's at the weekend brought an exception to the rule to my attention.

The appointment was for a routine cervical smear, or “fanny scrape” as my gay refers to it, not being one to beat around the bush, although the doctor most certainly did, examining more things than I would deem necessary.

From the waiting room I’m ushered through by a very friendly nurse, who duly introduces me to a doctor who speaks on pidgin English to complement my diabolical grasp of Japanese. I explain, using graphic gestures, as best I can that I just need a smear.

"Ovary……examination?" he asks, loud and clear.

“No, no, just smear, cervical cancer check, routine,” I attempt.

“Ah, okay, understand,” he says, before falling back in a ramble of Japanese, which sees the young nurse reappearing and leading me further into the depths of the doctor’s area.

She stops at a curtain, which she lifts and beckons me behind, pointing at my clothes and a large chair before dropping the curtain and scurrying away. So I strip and sit as instructed, awaiting her return and the usual run of events.

From this point it’s all very fast paced as I hear the excitable doctor wittering away at the other side of the curtain, which is forming a protective barrier around my modesty.

The rising intonation in his voice suggests he is asking me question after question so I chance it and reply “hai, hai hai,” (yes, yes, yes) until the rambling ceases.

And as it does, the chair does a swift 90 degree turn, shoots back, plummeting my lower body into the air before the stirrups spring open, causing irreparable damage to my thigh muscles in the process. The bottom half of my body is now one the other side of the curtain with the doctor, who proceeds to deliver a fast paced, enthusiastic running commentary, reminiscent of any stereotypical Japanese television programme. I think he has conducted a smear but I cannot be sure, it all happens so quickly.

But it doesn’t end there, another implement gets involved. As I’m pulling all manner of confused, yet surprised, faces behind the protection of the curtain, a hand appears, waving my eyes in the direction of a television monitor displaying my insides.

He is giving me a guided tour.

The hand moves, pointing at various areas of my baby making facilities as I hear high pitched Japanese speckled with sporadic use of English, like an excited football commentator when his team is about to score the winning goal.

It is how I would imagine an ultrasound scan on a pregnant woman to be, minus the foetus, so needless to say I find it somewhat difficult to feign enthusiasm.

The entire process lasts no longer than a teenaged boy's first sexual encounter.

A nation of hypochondriacs, Japanese people make visits to the hospital for an array of ailments, ranging from stubbed toes to full blown AIDS.

In training week, I received an F, the lowest grade, on the routine medical due to a swollen gland in my neck. Clean living Japanese doctors simply couldn’t comprehend that too much sake and no sleep since England was the direct cause of this insignificant inflammation, I was not dying and most certainly not in need of a trip to the hospital.

Grave concern was etched on the face of the lady taking my blood pressure that same day. Sleep depraved, living on adrenalin, suffering from hangover sweats and being in direct line of vision of the phlebotomist draining the blood from the arm of my friend, knowing I was next in line, may have accounted for my blood pressure rocketing to inconceivable levels.

Getting back to my most recent ordeal, the results came this evening, translated, as promised, into English. You would think this would make it as simple as “all clear” or “please make a further appointment.”

But what on earth Nichibo Category Class II, Ika Category NILM, (Bethesda System) means, I don’t think even a fully trained medic would like to hazard a guess.