The doctor is in

In America — and the world over, really — doctors are accorded a god-like respect. They treat the injured and tend the dying as guardians of hope against death's final frontier. With all this deifying, though, I think we sometimes forget that doctors are human, too.

When my friend Jacob attended medical school, he confessed that the male students worried about their OBGYN rotation.

"What if we get a really hot girl in the exam room?" they asked. Would they be able to swap their natural urges for medical professionalism?

In France, I think doctors worry less about this sort of impropriety. When I spent time in Paris under a government teaching contract, I was required to go through an extensive medical exam before receiving my work permit. The most unnerving part involved a topless upper respiratory evaluation. My own was brief and clinical, but my friend Naomi had a different experience. When she exited the changing room and sat in the examination chair, the doctor gave her an approving thumbs up.

"Nice," he said.

After he listened to her lungs and took an x-ray of her bare chest, he handed over his phone number.

So far, my own experiences with male doctors have been strictly routine, except for a memorable episode last week. See, I have this unpredictable digestive system, with a stomach that goes on the fritz at random (and inopportune) moments. After more than a decade, I'm finally addressing this cranky condition.

I performed an extensive Google search and peeked at WebMD, then decided I have an intolerance for fructose (got to love that high fructose corn syrup). With this in mind, I made an appointment with a gastroenterologist, hoping for a quick blood test and a speedy confirmation of my Internet diagnosis. What I got was something, shall we say, entirely more personal.

At the appointed time, the nurse led me to an examination room. "The doctor will be right in," she said.

In just a few minutes, the gastroenterologist arrived. He sat opposite my chair and fired off a succession of probing questions, taking notes as he spoke.

"Recent weight loss? History of diabetes? Allergic to any medications?"

After we moved through the list, he closed the file folder and stood. "I'll find the nurse for the examination."

A woman arrived a few minutes later carrying a paper gown. "You'll need to put this on," she said. "And take off everything from the waist down."

I backed toward the corner.

"The waist down?"

She wrinkled her eye-brows and said it again slowly, adding, “For the rectal exam.”

My hands flew to the back pockets of my jeans, as if to protect that sacred no-man’s-land. “Oh, no,” I said.

The nurse flushed, perplexed. “You don’t want the exam?”

“No,” I said again, empathically.She left the room, and I sank into a chair and let out the breath I’d been holding.

I closed my eyes and, when I opened them again, saw what should have been my first clue: an economy-sized tube of lubricant waiting on the counter. I shook my head and offered up a small prayer. Doctors may have god-like powers, but some areas are still off-limits.

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