I emerged more or less unscathed from four or five hours of being prodded, poked, photographed, x-rayed, flipped around and having various substances removed and analysed yesterday. The reason: 人間ドック (ningen dokku (dock)).
If I translate 人間ドック directly, it would be the rather sinister sounding ‘human dock’. The correct English, and less sinister, translation is basically ‘complete health check’. It is indeed thorough, although I’m not sure it’s complete. They didn’t, for example, check muscle strength or flexibility. But enough of what they didn’t do, let’s get to what they did do.
First of all, I find it a little curious that health checks in Japanese companies are ‘mandatory’. I work in an office, which requires very little in the way of physical exertion, as some of my rotund colleagues clearly demonstrate, yet I do not have a choice in the matter. Well, I could refuse, but that seems a little silly as the health check is, after all, for my benefit. It just strikes me as very odd and authoritarian when management make a big fuss about it being compulsory and look at me like I have grown a second head when I suggested that surely it should be voluntary unless good health and fitness is required for the job, such as in the armed forces or mountain rescue (although I’ve seen quite a few portly soldiers). I suppose it’s all part of the capitulation and not wanting to stand out that is rampant in corporateJapan, but those kind of things sit uncomfortably with me. Also, as I am 35, I am required (yes, required, there is no choice in the matter) to take a complete health check. For the under 35s, there is a blood test and a couple of other tests which take about an hour. Mine took four hours.
Back to the prodding and poking. My journey to the human dock began on Monday, when I was required to collect a stool sample. My initial, horrible, images of having to fish a log out of the toilet, stick it in a bag and carry it around with me were somewhat assuaged when I found out that wasn’t required. What I was required to do, however, was do my business on a sheet (the goods should not hit the water) and then stick a little plastic thing it, scrape a bit up and insert it into a little jar containing some blue liquid. Ready for lunch now? I had to repeat the process on Tuesday morning, before my appointment at 8:45am, which required a little effort (I’ll spare you the details). Next I had to fill in a long questionnaire (in Japanese) about my health, diet, family history and other things, which is not a requirement for people under 35. Along with my number two, I had to collect a few drops of number one. This was also not a straightforward pee in a cup procedure: I had to ‘release a little’, stop, pee into a little cup, then use a little sucky-bottle-type-thing to collect my sample. Unlike the poo collectors, the cap on the flimsy wee bottle didn’t seem very secure, which was slightly worrying considering I had to carry it on three trains during my commute of over one hour. Thankfully, both me and my substances arrived intact.
Upon arrival at the plush clinic in central Tokyo, I handed over my samples and then changed into a pretty horrible green gown. First up was a blood test, which required giving three lots of blood (only one for the under 35s). Then there was a quick talk with a doctor and my height, weight and body fat measurements were taken. I was warned about so-called metabolic syndrome, even though I am slim, and told not to smoke or drink every day, even though I don’t. Then I had to wait with lots of other people sporting the same ghastly gowns.
From here, the procedures proper started. I had an ultrasound on my stomach with an incredibly serious, humourless doctor with a personality bypass. To lighten the mood, I asked if I was pregnant, but she replied with a flat, emotionless ‘no’. Riiiiiggghhht…
Next up my hearing was tested in a coffin-like soundproof room. I didn’t really know what to do, so I ended up pressing buttons almost at random, which seemed OK. Next, my eyes were tested, air blown into them (apparently to check for diabetes) and my retinas were photographed using a blinding light. Then my lungs (I presume) were tested by blowing into a tube until they nearly burst. This was all interspersed with lots and lots of waiting. After the lung chest, my chest was x-rayed and I waited a bit more.
The finale was the barium meal. Again, either this or an endoscope is ‘compulsory’ for the ancient over 35s. First, I had to put some odd little white ball things in my mouth, then swallow the lot with a small cup of some white liquid. This was topped off with a large glass of runny putty. After burping once or twice, the doctor said ‘please try not to burp’ and I gave my assurance. Then I burped again. I stood on a narrow platform of a large machine and was totally unprepared for what was about to happen: Suddenly, the whole thing started whirling around. I was lifted up, twisted, turned upside down and a robot arm came and prodded me in the stomach. All the time the doctor was telling me to lean to the left, lean to the right, turn around, hold on, breathe in, breathe out and – most importantly – don’t burp. It seemed to go on for a long time, until the unnervingly jovial doctor informed me that I had finished. Not only was he a little over the top in his enthusiasm for looking at peoples’ insides, he also had the discomforting habit of looking slightly behind me as he talked, so much so that I turned to look what was behind me a couple of times.
And that is how it ended. I wiped the white stuff from around my mouth, drank some water and went to have lunch. I was given a tablet to help move things along if the barium bunged me up and spent the afternoon looking forward to white poo. They gave me a quick run down of my condition (I’m not about to cark it before the end of the week) and told me that the full results would be in the post.
The experience has had the unexpected effect of making me more determined to be healthier and start exercising seriously and regularly. Having all those tests was OK as while I’m (reasonably) healthy, but I kept getting a sense of what it would feel like knowing that those kind of tests were being conducted as part of diagnosis and treatment of a serious disease. And it did not feel nice.
