The Health Clinic

In Japan companies pay for yearly heath checks on all their employees and for the first in my life I am now included in this category of the world’s population. To put it more humbly, my boss asked me to go to a clinic today and get checked.

The clinic was near to where I live and was not hard to find. In a country with no free healthcare matters of the body are big business, which is why as well as my map I was also guided by an enormous billboard pointing the way. Where the London Underground has posters for books, movies and shows Tokyo Subway’s walls contain hundreds of adverts for maternity clinics and dentists.

Sterile is the first word that springs to mind while writing a sentence about the clinic, which is I suppose to be expected. The waiting area had some ridiculously soothing music playing, some fitted seats too narrow to get comfortable on and a water machine in the corner. As I waited for my appointment the harsh lighting and sterility of the room began to feel slightly sinister, as if they were expecting me to be ill – which again is probably the case. I went to get some water to try to settle my nerves.

The receptionist came over to give me a paper cup exactly like the one I was now drinking from, except for little labels along the inside marking 50 millilitres, 100 and so on. To save her the trouble of trying to explain what a urine sample was I told her I understood what the cup was for. She pointed to the toilet and said “later.” She went away again and I wondered what the etiquette for giving samples was. For example, if I went into the toilet and did my business as instructed then would I then have to come back out into the lobby with my warm cup and sit waiting for my appointment like everyone else. Or would I need to hand it to the receptionist who would pass it on appropriately. Neither option seemed appropriate and there was no lid on the cup so I decided to just wait. In case I was called in for my appointment and they got the wrong impression I quickly finished my drink. I didn’t have to wait long before a doctor called me into his room with the word “Nicholas.”

His office was very small but had all manner of gadgetry; a digital camera and three monitors caught my eye. He sat and gravely looked at the letter my company had given me to take along. I rather wondered what the letter actually said when he asked me, “Do you have any special kind of disease?” I said “No.” He continued to read the letter and asked, “Any symptoms?” I told him I thought I was healthy and that I was only there because my job wanted me to have a health check. He made a throaty noise that I took to mean that his larynx understood me and that it was waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

Finally he tore himself away from the letter and looked deeply into my eyes before blinding them with a small torch. Next he did the classic say “ahh” routine and stared down my throat. Then he proded my neck and glands. With his stethoscope he listened to all parts of my chest, and then all over my back as if he was listening out for a good station. He wrote some things down and then asked me to lie on the bed. He prodded my stomach and legs and then it was time for room number two. I picked up my bag and empty urine sample cup and followed him.

There was a tall nurse standing in room number two. I put my bag and cup down on the floor and she asked me to sit down. She took my blood pressure in silence. Then she told me what it was and I couldn’t help but look indifferent. She said “good” with a thumbs up and I smiled. Next she measured my height and took my weight. Room number three soon followed.

Putting my bag and cup down again she asked me to stand on a line drawn on the floor. There followed the most confusing eye test I have ever had. The test consisted of incomplete circles and it turned out I had to point in the direction of each circle’s hole. At first I thought I had to draw the circle with my hand but thankfully they realised this was a communication problem rather than one of eyesight – otherwise who knows what could have happened. Then it was room number four for a listening test.

In room number five the nurse put my bag and urine cup down on a chair as I had forgotten to pick them up. It was time for an x-ray. As I stood against the cold metal I taught the doctor the phrases “Breathe in” and “Breathe out” for which he seemed grateful. He slid something black out of the thing in front of me and told me to wait. He walked into the other room and I heard him make a pained sound as if either the x-ray had turned out bad or he had stubbed his toe on the door.

Room number six was the toilet - it was urine sample time. I asked what I was supposed to do with the sample afterwards. The doctor pointed to the wall of the toilet where there was a frosted glass window into the adjacent office. Suddenly it all became clear. “Of course, it’s like a drive-through,” I thought. You see, the entire transaction takes place through a window; they tell me what they want from the limited menu, I give it to them in disposable packaging, they say thank you and goodbye.

Regrettably, I had been just before I left. That sentence makes little sense when taken literally but I am sure you understand. The upshot was I really didn’t need to go. Up until that point I had always considered that when I eventually got to that point in my life, the urine sample point, it would be OK. In the past I had always been able to go when I wanted to, just stand, relax and let it happen. There was one time in a truckstop in America where I couldn’t go but that was different. That was a strange new land with scary men and only a wall of urinals, a far cry from the private room I was now standing in. There was even a dispenser for disposable toilet seat covers for god’s sake. But someone did try the door and that put the pressure on, not the right kind of pressure mind.

I tried everything. I relaxed and closed my eyes. I thought of the seas and the oceans, Niagara Falls endlessly pounding the rocks, Titanic resting on the North Atlantic seabed, the water swirling around my very own body. I had a bottle of water in my bag, I drank it. I ran the tap and held my hand under for some time. I stared down at the water in the bottom of the toilet and imagined it was a great ocean I was falling towards. Nothing.

At that point I thought about how they were waiting for me. The doctor and nurse standing wondering if I had understood correctly, maybe joking about whether I would come back with a cup full of some other bodily fluid. I thought it would appear very childish were I to return to them saying, “I can’t go now.” There is something about being an adult where you are expected to be able to do things. Skills like photocopying or making coffee, but also being a master of your own body - giving a urine sample is one of those things adults are supposed to be able to do. I thought about school where teachers would say, “Why didn’t you go at lunchtime?” this was now a case of “Why did you go at lunchtime?”

I knew the clinic would be closing soon; I looked at my watch and sighed. There was a knock on the door. I picked up my bag and urine sample cup once more. I opened the door and apologised. The clinic was closing; I have to go back tomorrow. “See you tomorrow” I said to the nurse with a big unembarrassed smile.

I finally went two hours later: my precious waste fluid washing away. “Where were you when I needed you?” I asked it. It didn’t reply.