chevron-down Created with Sketch Beta.

Experience

Experience January/February 2025

Embarrassment as a Guide to Health Decisions

Joseph Weeg

Summary

  • The current generation entering their senior years grew up in a time where discussing health concerns relating to intimate areas of the body was seen as taboo.
  • Feeling embarrassed often stops people from notifying their health professionals of certain health concerns.
Embarrassment as a Guide to Health Decisions
PeopleImages via iStock

Jump to:

It’s a shame — but here I am — on a doctor’s examining table with my pants down and needing to talk about things. Embarrassing things. Things I wouldn’t even tell a spiritual confessor with eternal damnation on the line. Embarrassment or hellfire for eternity? Duh, I’ll take door two for eternal damnation.

How did this happen?

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The sound of time passing was such a comfort not so long ago. Our parents would wrap the large wind-up clock in a tea towel and put it in the crib, as the books recommended. And babies fell asleep fast. It was magic. It was harder to do with a smartwatch, of course. But nonetheless, it worked once upon a time.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

And today, that rhythmic sound is a bit less soothing. It’s the tick-tock of the crocodile pursuing Captain Hook and looking for one more taste. Our bodies do tell our history — a history of illness, hard use, stress, and dozens upon dozens of glazed donuts.

So, how do we deal with this old body as we navigate old age? Well, isn’t this your lucky day! I’m going to solve the problem of how to make health decisions for us seniors and how to become unpopular in one fell swoop. Sit back, buckle up, order the carrot cake, and here we go…

“Joe, I had to go to the doctor because of things going on,” — my mom looks around to make sure there are no Catholic priests hiding behind the living room sofa — “down there.”

My 97-year-old mom comes from a different time. She is wrapped in religious beliefs that define most bodily functions as questionable at best or nonexistent at worst. I get it. Listen, I’m one of her eight virgin births. And I drank the family Kool-Aid back when the Kool-Aid pitcher winked knowingly at us from the ad on our black and white TV.

To put it simply, my mom was embarrassed. And trust me, folks, the apple doesn’t fall far from the shame tree, which is so well identified by Brené Brown in her many books and podcasts. But I am now an old man. Isn’t it time to move on? To grow up? As Jenny Joseph wrote in her famous poem — “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.”

But lord help me, I’m afraid I’m not ready to wear purple.

After completing my yearly physical the other day, my young doctor (as it happens, I buried my old doctor) asked if I had any questions.

“Well, doctor, what exactly are . . .” I stop and look behind the examining table for the towel-snapping boys of high school locker room days.

I am embarrassed to talk about hemorrhoids. Unbelievable. After reviewing scores of sexual abuse cases, murder cases, child abuse cases, and autopsies and asking the most intimate questions of witnesses in court, I am embarrassed to talk about “down there.” Really?

This is unacceptable. I used to be so smug. I used to lecture cops and lawyers and law students that if they had two choices to make, then generally the harder choice was right. Yup, I used to say this out loud while wrapped in the piety of a public-service-minded criminal prosecutor. I would then give them an example that I was sure would make them uncomfortable because it made me uncomfortable: is it better to have quality time or quantity of time with your children? Now, there’s a puzzler.

To put that in dad-speak: is it better to go to sunny Disneyland once a year, or is it better to go to the muddy neighborhood park for the 100th time to hear your kids yelling from the big slide, “Look at me, look at me,” while you sit on a wet park bench and rest your head against a lukewarm coffee cup and wonder if that slight headache is a tumor or just a mild stroke? Duh, Disneyland is the obvious answer, but our heart knows that is too easy. The right choice, the hard choice, is to drink your coffee and watch your darn kids. The end.

How does this translate to being an old man needing to make health decisions?

Since I am a dabbler and a know-it-all, let’s talk about this guy Albert Camus. He wrote a book called “Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays.” You remember Sisyphus, the poor schmuck who had to spend his days rolling a stone up a hill, only to have the stone roll back down . . . for eternity. Camus uses this story to expound on his theory of the absurd. Sisyphus’s return down the mountain fascinates Camus. It is during the return that Sisyphus confronts the meaninglessness of life. But, and this is a big but, “the crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.”

What does Camus mean? Who knows. But here’s what it means to me —WHENEVER YOU HAVE A CHOICE TO MAKE, CHOOSE THE EMBARRASSING OPTION. Why? Because it necessarily forces you to face the “crushing truth.” And by facing whatever your crushing truths are, you are free — embarrassed and unpopular —but free.

Okay, but what does that mean in practicality?

Let’s start slowly, with the difficulty of publicly acknowledging the limitations of your aging body. For example, look at my own messed-up aging process. The other day, I was invited to a party at a friend’s house. Sure, those of you who know me are surprised that I have a friend. Well, I do . . . or did. As I entered, I noticed that everyone was taking off their shoes. Yikes, this is a no-shoes house. My worst nightmare.

For starters, I did not grow up in a no-shoes house. With eight kids, that would have been like trying to clean off one pig in a greased-pig contest — too many piglets to control. So, we tracked in mud, dirt, leaves, stray dogs, and miscellaneous neighbor kids. My mom would yell at us, and we’d get the broom or mop or continue to track our way through the house. It’s just the way it worked. A floor with muddy footprints is my familiar space. And it also allowed us to eat the farmer-prescribed pound of dirt. Bonus.

But now I’m expected to take my shoes off. It is bad manners to do anything else. And look at that pristine floor. Are you going to be the one to track mud on that? I don’t think so. Oh my, there’s no bench. Yikes. My losing end of a car/bike accident (fused neck, numb feet, lousy balance), two fake knees, and just being an old guy, makes this taking-off-of-shoes business an Olympic event. And, folks, my past scores are not good.

But I’ve got this. I do a yoga move called the Downward Dog to get to the floor. From there, I drop to my knees, flip over onto my butt, pull up one leg at a time to loosen my shoes, and then slide them off with a loud grunt. Whew. Mission accomplished. Now, to get off the floor.

During this fiasco, I see other guests trying not to stare. I suspect they think I’m having a seizure. I’m not.

And there’s your test — take your shoes off or not? It is embarrassing to take off your shoes as an old guy. People think you are weird. And your aging body is on display for all the public, and it isn’t flattering. No one is going to be buying you at the used car lot. You are, at best, scrap metal. Getting your shoes off is an acknowledgment that you are not the person you used to be. You might as well wear a sign that says: I AM IN DECLINE — NEW SHOW EVERY HALF HOUR. And look, people are backing away from you. This is a disaster.

The right thing to do?

Hah! Like Sisyphus, look at the embarrassment in the eye and take off the darn shoes. Why? Because it’s good for you to get to the floor. It’s good for you to maneuver your body up and down. It’s good for you to push yourself to your physical edges. And, perhaps most importantly, after a career as a lawyer, humility makes you loveable. Period.

How do I know it is the right choice? BECAUSE I AM EMBARASSED. Duh. This is just a corollary to the hard-choice ethic. If you are embarrassed, do the embarrassing thing. BINGO, there’s your answer.

Well, that sucks.

Okay, another example?

My night vision is horrible. Even after cataract surgery, the lights from oncoming cars blind me. I should not be driving at night. And, yes, Virginia, this is just part of the slippery slope towards not driving at all.

Part of becoming an adult, part of being independent, part of being powerful, is driving a car. You want to get an ice cream cone? I’ll drive. You want to get groceries? I’ll pick them up. You want to go live in the mountains two states over? Hop in the car. It is childlike not to be able to drive yourself. I’ll drive. End of story.

Well, not anymore, folks. How do I know? Because it is EMBARRASSING not to be able to drive yourself. You feel like you are less of a person. You don’t want to tell the boys at the coffee shop that your kids or an Uber dropped you off and will be picking you up. It is not fair, but so what? It is unsafe to drive. You are a danger to yourself and others. You cannot drive. Period.

And that’s how it works. Embarrassed about using a walker? Big deal. Do it. Embarrassed about losing your hair because of chemo? Try to rally. Are you embarrassed about peeing too much, peeing too little, or peeing your pants? Get over yourself and tell your doctor. And now you can’t remember your doctor’s name? Tell that to your doctor, you dope.

“Crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.”

So here I am on the examining table. The doctor is younger than my children. Am I going to talk to him about hemorrhoids or not?

Is it embarrassing? Check.

Is it hard to do? Check.

Is it unpopular to talk about? Check.

So, talk about the darn hemorrhoids!

“Joe, what’s the problem today?” the doctor says with a kind, tired voice.

I smile, apologizing for existing as we old people do.

“Well, I think something’s going on . . . down there.”

Aargh!

    Author