Sex and the Single Gland
WEEKENDER | Fri, 06/26/2009 5:39 PM |
It had been several years since my last top-to-bottom medical checkup. It wasn’t that I had a fear of sharp, piercing objects or probing fingers (well, maybe a little). It was more a simple matter of time and place.
So I actually looked forward to the appointment for my all-day “executive examination” at a medical center just outside Jakarta. And I prepared conscientiously, not eating anything after 10 p.m. the night before and collecting a certain specimen to bring along that took me quite a while to figure out how to collect.
All went well. Thankfully, no problem with the major organs. And I don’t know about you, but I found having my ear canals vacuumed is quite a pleasurable sensation.
And I realized that it actually had been a lot longer than a couple of years since my previous physical. Because, to my relief, I found that technology has replaced rubber gloves and petroleum jelly. To address one of the major concerns of middle-aged men, an ultrasound wand is now used to examine the prostate gland instead of old-fashioned digital intrusion.
As the physician glided the device over my lower abdomen, I imagined the anticipation women must feel when it happens to them. But unlike its usual use to monitor a woman’s growing fetus, doctors hope to find that the gland that produces a man’s seminal fluid is as small as ever.
Dr. Nuzul wasn’t smiling.
“See, your prostate is slightly enlarged. Nothing serious. In fact, that’s normal for most men.”
But he explained that if it grew larger, it could cause an obstruction for the urinary tract.
“I can prescribe some drugs to help reduce the size. Or…”
“Or what, Doc?” I asked nervously.
“You must have sex twice a week. At least.”
If I were a woman, this moment would have defined the ultimate pregnant pause.
I waited for him to laugh and say he was only having fun with me. He didn’t.
“You’re not kidding? That’s your prescription?”
“Yes. My wife is a doctor, too, and she knows.”
OK. Catch my breath for a second. Once in the US I was advised to wear an eye patch after retina surgery that made me look like Johnny Depp’s pirate shipmate. I did that. And for a back rash here, I dutifully obeyed and sprinkled on an alternative Chinese powder that I think doubles as a coating for kung pao chicken.
But now, this highly trained, medical-certificate-on-the-wall professional was prescribing a remedy that’s like asking a vampire if he’d like to do volunteer work at the blood bank. Or something like that.
“Sure, Doc, I’ll do it. But let’s just say, for conversation’s sake, I was already meeting your requirement. Would that mean I would need to multiply your prescription? Hypothetically speaking.”
“It would not hurt.”
I left his office that day concerned in a strangely happy way. I imagined the reaction when I brought the doctor’s note to my office, asking my employer for time off for treatment for my prostate problem.
“Ahh, Pak Gani, I need the afternoon off for medical purposes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment with a specialist?”
“No, I have a reservation at the Ritz-Carlton.”
But wait. The more I thought about it, the more anxiety replaced anticipation. Sex was about to become clinical for me, and that’s not really a turn-on. Let alone romantic.
“Hey man, now you have a scientific justification to do it,” offered a totally serious golf buddy.
Yes, but I think having that therapeutic purpose somewhere in the back of my mind would definitely find its way to the front of the house.
So I tried not to ponder the good doctor’s guidance any further, and began loading up on salads and shellfish. I figured I was overdue for the vitamins from fresh vegetables and the purported potency of oysters anyway.
In fact, I had just about forgotten my minor dilemma when I was invited to dinner in the private room of a high-end hotel restaurant. It had been arranged by another single friend “to meet some intelligent, good conversation women”.
Not long after the peanuts were passed and the Peking duck made its entrance, one woman provided me with a sobering perspective with this matter-of-fact admission:
“I haven’t had sex in six years. And if I never have sex the rest of my life, I’m OK.”
Now that’s a problem.
Hawaii native Dalton Tanonaka is the co-anchor of Metro TV’s "Indonesia Now" program, seen on Saturday mornings at 7 a.m. and Sundays at 1 a.m. He can be reached at dalton@metrotvnews.com.
So I actually looked forward to the appointment for my all-day “executive examination” at a medical center just outside Jakarta. And I prepared conscientiously, not eating anything after 10 p.m. the night before and collecting a certain specimen to bring along that took me quite a while to figure out how to collect.
All went well. Thankfully, no problem with the major organs. And I don’t know about you, but I found having my ear canals vacuumed is quite a pleasurable sensation.
And I realized that it actually had been a lot longer than a couple of years since my previous physical. Because, to my relief, I found that technology has replaced rubber gloves and petroleum jelly. To address one of the major concerns of middle-aged men, an ultrasound wand is now used to examine the prostate gland instead of old-fashioned digital intrusion.
As the physician glided the device over my lower abdomen, I imagined the anticipation women must feel when it happens to them. But unlike its usual use to monitor a woman’s growing fetus, doctors hope to find that the gland that produces a man’s seminal fluid is as small as ever.
Dr. Nuzul wasn’t smiling.
“See, your prostate is slightly enlarged. Nothing serious. In fact, that’s normal for most men.”
But he explained that if it grew larger, it could cause an obstruction for the urinary tract.
“I can prescribe some drugs to help reduce the size. Or…”
“Or what, Doc?” I asked nervously.
“You must have sex twice a week. At least.”
If I were a woman, this moment would have defined the ultimate pregnant pause.
I waited for him to laugh and say he was only having fun with me. He didn’t.
“You’re not kidding? That’s your prescription?”
“Yes. My wife is a doctor, too, and she knows.”
OK. Catch my breath for a second. Once in the US I was advised to wear an eye patch after retina surgery that made me look like Johnny Depp’s pirate shipmate. I did that. And for a back rash here, I dutifully obeyed and sprinkled on an alternative Chinese powder that I think doubles as a coating for kung pao chicken.
But now, this highly trained, medical-certificate-on-the-wall professional was prescribing a remedy that’s like asking a vampire if he’d like to do volunteer work at the blood bank. Or something like that.
“Sure, Doc, I’ll do it. But let’s just say, for conversation’s sake, I was already meeting your requirement. Would that mean I would need to multiply your prescription? Hypothetically speaking.”
“It would not hurt.”
I left his office that day concerned in a strangely happy way. I imagined the reaction when I brought the doctor’s note to my office, asking my employer for time off for treatment for my prostate problem.
“Ahh, Pak Gani, I need the afternoon off for medical purposes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment with a specialist?”
“No, I have a reservation at the Ritz-Carlton.”
But wait. The more I thought about it, the more anxiety replaced anticipation. Sex was about to become clinical for me, and that’s not really a turn-on. Let alone romantic.
“Hey man, now you have a scientific justification to do it,” offered a totally serious golf buddy.
Yes, but I think having that therapeutic purpose somewhere in the back of my mind would definitely find its way to the front of the house.
So I tried not to ponder the good doctor’s guidance any further, and began loading up on salads and shellfish. I figured I was overdue for the vitamins from fresh vegetables and the purported potency of oysters anyway.
In fact, I had just about forgotten my minor dilemma when I was invited to dinner in the private room of a high-end hotel restaurant. It had been arranged by another single friend “to meet some intelligent, good conversation women”.
Not long after the peanuts were passed and the Peking duck made its entrance, one woman provided me with a sobering perspective with this matter-of-fact admission:
“I haven’t had sex in six years. And if I never have sex the rest of my life, I’m OK.”
Now that’s a problem.
Hawaii native Dalton Tanonaka is the co-anchor of Metro TV’s "Indonesia Now" program, seen on Saturday mornings at 7 a.m. and Sundays at 1 a.m. He can be reached at dalton@metrotvnews.com.
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