CONFIDENTIAL FILE

First-Hand Report From Bed of Pain

[Note: I’m always concerned when Paul Coates takes a sick day or writes about his health. He suffered a stroke in 1966, made a startling recovery, but died Nov. 16, 1968. He was 47–lrh].

This
is an ultimatum to my doctor who last week, sentenced me to a five-day
stretch in Mt. Sinai hospital, "just for a checkup."

That’s a scientific term meaning there’s nothing wrong with you but they dare you to prove it.

"When a man gets to be your age," the doctor explained, "he should go into the hospital once a year."

"Pretty expensive for me to do every year," I said, in hopes he’d take it personally.

"It
won’t be too expensive," he replied, giving me a long, sad look which I
suppose meant that at my advanced age there weren’t too many years left
to worry about.

So, I packed my Pan American flight bag with a
toothbrush, razor, cologne and an adequate little men’s deodorant.
Then, for the better part of a week, a retinue of pretty nurses took my
pulse, my temperature and generous quantities of my blood. They fasted
me, then fed me a nutritious drink called barium which tastes like
plaster of Paris malted.

Probably there’s something to be said
for taking these yearly precautions. But the medical profession doesn’t
properly consider the psychological abuse it does to sensitive people
like me, when it hospitalizes us merely for a checkup.

They
put us in a bed, and we look like every other patient except that we’re
not sick. Therefore, we’re not entitled to any of the usual niceties of
illness.

Nobody sends us flowers, candies or assorted fruits.
And it would be fairly ridiculous to send one of those clever "get
well" cards to somebody who was well when they went in. We get
visitors, but they don’t ask how we feel. Instead, they tell us about
the time they were "in."

And so, we lie on a bed of pain borne of frustration at having no operation of our own to talk about.

After a few such visitors, I asked the doctor, in some desperation, how my tests were going.

"Just fine," he assured me.

"You found something," I said hopefully. "I got symptoms."

He shook his head. "Nothing," he assured me. "So far, you’re in great shape. That is, for a man your age."

About Bella’s Husband

There
was, however, one sweet old lady who gave me some hope that everything
wasn’t as uncomplicated as it seemed. We met while taking out
constitutionals on the fifth floor of the hospital.

She looked at me closely and pointed an accusing finger. "You’re that one from television. Edward R . . ."

"Coates," I finished for her.

"Sure," she said. "I knew it right away. So listen, I’m here for gallbladder. You?"

"Just a checkup," I admitted meekly.

"A
checkup." She clucked sympathetically. "My cousin Bella’s husband,
Harry?" she said in a tone that clearly implied I must know her cousin
Bella’s husband, Harry.

"They took him for a checkup. Everything was fine. And two weeks later?"

"What?" I demanded.

Bella’s cousin snapped her fingers. "Pfft!" she said.

"Dead?" I asked.

She shrugged, "What else?" she replied.

That was some help. But, after all, I can hardly go around using somebody else’s
case history. It’s not the same thing. Consequently, I’d like to go on
record with my physician right now. Next year, if he doesn’t come up
with a symptom or two, I’ll damn well find someone who will.