The Bone Test

During my recent physical, my physician asked if I would be willing to take a bone density test. I said something droll, like “Uhhhh.”

He explained that since I had taken steroidal meds in the past, I might be at risk for osteoporosis.

“Uhhhh. Okay.” I added.

In a couple weeks, I got a call from the local hospital. They invited me to visit at a mutually convenient time. I agreed and showed up on time. The woman at the front desk directed me and I followed her instructions to the letter, only to arrive at a place called the “Women’s Imaging Center.”

A female voice called cheerily from the far end of the long waiting room.

I timidly walked the gauntlet of women seated row upon row. Each of them watched me as if I were an intruder in an intimate setting. Odd, I felt exactly like an intruder in an intimate setting. I smiled sheepishly at a few, nodded to some and ignored most as I moved to the voice.

The cheerful woman handed me a sheaf of papers to fill out and told me to find a seat until it was my turn. I strolled to a chair apart from the others but in reach of a stack of magazines. I like to read when I am uncomfortable. I picked up a magazine, scanned the cover and placed it back on the table. When finished browsing the stack, I knew there had never been a “Car & Driver” or “National Geographic in this room. I folded my hands on my lap and closed my eyes. It seemed the respectful thing to do.

Some of these women were in for a low-risk scan, the same as I. Others had a lump in their breast. The tension infected everyone, even me.

In a few minutes, I moved to a staging room. A woman, younger than I, came in a minute later. She stared blankly at me.

“I’m here for a bone density scan.” I told her.

She told me “what she was in for,” but all I remember was it was for nothing fatal. We relaxed a little and chatted like normal folks. Then, a technician fetched her for her tests. I wished her luck, then I was alone and beginning to question my immortality – a long cherished article of faith with me.

Then it was my turn. I lay on a flat table with an arm arching above me. The technician covered me with a towel and asked me to undo my zipper and open my jeans so the metal zipper would not obstruct the scan of my spine.

“Spine?” I thought.

In a few minutes, the scan ended. I re-zipped and hopped off the table as if it were a griddle.

“So, how did I do?” I asked hoping for some relief.

“Oh, I am sorry, sir, but hospital policy does not permit us to give the information to patients. They used to, but now it is prohibited.” She explained.

“I am so screwed.” I thought.