Recently, I underwent a process called “biometric screening.” This process serves as a way to identify health risks and plan preventative actions. Also, it is a way for my insurance company to monitor the overall health of the population it serves. And third, it scares me healthy for a few months following the tests. A side effect is the humiliation I feel during the whole rigamarole.
I think maybe we call these events “screenings” because of all of the folding screens at the venue. The folding screens are intended to give people a bit of privacy when they are being weighed, measured, and sized up by strangers in scrubs. I usually derive some comfort from their presence; I can furtively and quietly slip behind one to be weighed and lectured. That didn’t work out too well at the last biometric screening I attended, as I managed to knock one of the screens down and the entire roomful of people peeked around their own screens to see who had caused the ruckus.
After the hullabaloo died down, the attendant checking me in asked me to put everything I didn’t want weighed on the table. “My hips?” I quipped. She didn’t even crack a smile.
Whenever I am weighed and measured as an adult, I am transported back to my grade school years, when all of my classmates and I would line up at the nurse’s office. She’d yell out the weights for the school secretary to record between the flicking of her cigarette at the ashtray on the stand next to her. I was mortified and tried my hardest to suck in my stomach, as if doing that might take me down a pound or two. Another strategy was to put more weight on one foot than the other. Neither tactic worked, as far as I know.
I am soooo over all of those childhood insecurities. Weight is just a silly number! I feel great. Besides, I fasted for 12 hours before this weigh-in, and that’s bound to work in my favor. Even so, when I stepped on the scale behind the re-erected folding screen, I half expected the attendant to holler out, “Thirty pounds more than this time last year.” Or, “This is the most this gal’s weighed since she was pregnant with her last kid.” Or, “You musta forgot to empty your pockets.” Instead, she merely wrote the number on a form, handed it to me, and directed me to the next station, where I was to have my finger pricked for blood.
Nowadays, it only takes a few minutes to get a readout of a person’s bloodwork, adding to the indignity of the entire ordeal. At least before, a person got to receive results in the mail a few days after the test. Now, the nurse who drew my blood also read the results. So much for curling up in a little ball in my closet before opening the results.
The nurse clicked her tongue as the totals popped up on her little newfangled device. “Your triglycerides are extremely elevated. Did you forget to fast? Oh my. I believe you need to see a health coach. There’s one available at the next station.”
Okay, first of all, I did not forget to fast, as the nurse should have realized by the sound of my stomach growling. And second of all, a health coach? So now, to add insult to injury, I had to go see a remedial health professional? Not that I am self-conscious, but I certainly didn’t want to take anyone else’s valuable spot in the line. Those other people most likely needed a health coach much more than I could ever possibly. Unfortunately, the nurse was so insistent that I almost felt like she was about to load me on a stretcher to get me over there, so I went.
The health coach glanced at my results and smiled encouragingly. “Well,” she said, “let’s not get too upset here. This is manageable. I’m going to send you some food lists and diet recommendations.”
I must have looked chagrined, because she patted my hand reassuringly. “You absolutely do not have to give up carbs altogether. You can look forward to, oh, probably about a half a cup of brown rice once a week.” After staring straight ahead for a few moments, I quietly took my hips and left, vowing to skip the biometric screening next time, discount be danged.
