Invasive Testing

There’s a funny thing about Australia. Despite setting in a continent bristling with all things poisonous, they’re rather timid. I wouldn’t have expected the home of the Great Barrier Reef to be pussies about diving.

That, or they’re milking me for all I’m worth.

Before I can take my 400 dollar diving class (and buy the 100 dollars in gear), I needed an 80 dollar check-up. Not covered by insurance.

Only one doctor is qualified to give a dive medical. Turns out, he’s head of University Health Services. The man is basically Alan Glass in every way. I’m curious to find out if he’s like Dr. Glass in that way, but I refrain.

“Don’t worry, I won’t check for drugs.” followed by a wink. It’s starting to seem like everyone I encounter is a closet stoner.

I was given a checklist when I booked my appointment, asking me about anything medical-related I can come up with. I answered honestly. However, the doctor felt compelled to re-ask me every question. My gift was to ask him to explain everything. Probably doubled the appointment time, but made me feel both educated and self-satisfied for wasting his time.

I also learned that even in scuba diving, there’s a surprising level of anxiety over HIV. If your gums are bleeding, and your partner’s gums are bleeding, and you’re far below the surface, and his air runs out, and your secondary respirator is broken and you need to share a mouthpiece… The fear must be paralyzing.

Q&A over, I lie on the table for the physical exam. Prodding me all over with cold fingers and metal, I develop a deep sympathy for women. I never require a gynecological exam.

The doctor is in the middle of explaining the dangers of anxiety while diving to me, when he decides to bust out a two foot long rubber spike and rest it between my legs. Suddenly I’m anxious.

But it’s just an unnecessarily huge patella hammer. I shouldn’t have had such a knee-jerk reaction.

Dear readers, I have an experiment for you to try. Take your shoes off. Stand up, and stand heel to toe, like a sobriety test. Cross your arms over your chest, and close your eyes. Now balance there for a minute. It’s harder than you think.

Side thought: If you’ve ever had a urine exam, have you ever been tempted to bring back a different bodily fluid in the cup? “Oh, I’m sorry sir, I must’ve misheard you!”

Anyway, a piss in a cup and a hearing exam later, it’s time for the last test. Lung capacity: how much air can I hold in my lungs, and how fast can I expel it? Well, I must have done well, because he tells me I blow nice and hard. So Alan Glass. He also tells me I have somewhat small lungs, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man. Maybe I should prove it to him.

I believe I passed the exam. Despite small lungs, he says I’m in great health and pretty spot-on blood pressure. Flattery will get you everywhere. Can I get my certificate now?

Well, no. Apparently I need a chest x-ray. Completely unnecessary, but if you’ve got some scarring in your lungs, they can pop like a faulty balloon under pressure. And as I’d found out from my earlier inquisition, chicken pox can scar your lungs. So now its time for an x-ray?

Well, no. University Health Services is too cheap for an x-ray machine. I need to bus it over to Indooroopilly (try saying that 10 times fast) and get it from them tomorrow. Also not covered by insurance; another 70 on top. At this rate, I may run out of liquid assets before I even touch water.