Vital Signs

There are some serious benefits to chronic illnesses -- not the least of which is the biannual ritual commonly known as Verification of Life (VoL). This medical procedure bears striking resemblances to an autopsy, but with the opposite objective. In regards to VoL, I am twice-blessed: not only do I have the privilege of regularly undergoing the rite, I get spectators. (This is a value-added option that comes with obtaining medical care at an institution for higher learning.) For those of you unfamiliar with the process, I shall recount for you in vivid detail my experience earlier this week.

Scene 1: After stepping gracefully onto the scale nostalgically patterned after medieval instruments historically used to ascertain the relative value of dead game, I am escorted into a plush exam room. Sitting peacefully in a vinyl covered chair, I admire the impressionistic painting of a golf course. Although lacking in artistic merit, this painting inspires greater ease of mind than the portrait of a snarling tiger hanging prominently in one of the other exam rooms. (I am not making this up.) Grateful to be in the golf course room, I extend my arm cooperatively while the friendly assistant takes my blood pressure. You may have noticed that at this point, we have two pieces of evidence intimating life: 1) adequate mass to suggest that corporeal decay has not yet set in, and 2) pulse and blood pressure readings that fit within scientifically-established parameters for likely mortality. You might also consider the fact that I have responded coherently to a litany of questions posed by the friendly assistant. Such behavior could imply cognitive function, but this is, admittedly, merely circumstantial evidence.

Although insufficient for full verification of life, these measures are adequate grounds for declaring a hypothesis: patient could be alive. Validating this hypothesis, of course, requires confirming evidence and the scrutiny of seasoned medical professionals.

Scene II: Enter the highly-respected physician, Dr. G, and his followers. Dr. G exudes competence: nearing retirement age, this fine gentleman is scrupulously thorough and keenly knowledgeable. Not to be distracted from his mission, the good doctor briefly introduces his followers,

"This is Magnolia Jones, blossoming medical student, and Dr. Happy Resident, the future of this esteemed profession."

The two spectators smile and nod as though to say, "We found your medical history highly fascinating. In fact, we shall draw on it extensively in our upcoming assignments." A researcher-in-training myself, I attempt to find satisfaction in my unselfish contribution to the rigorous education of medical practitioners.

Now that we can dispense of formalities, Dr. G begins his extensive series of scientific tests. I am greatly relieved when I manage to track the subtle movement of his fingers with my eyes. (This simple task becomes more complicated with spectators as the pressure to perform is almost overwhelming.) The doctor looks at my hands and counts my fingers -- all ten are present and accounted for. With these tasks successfully accomplished, we move on to more complicated procedures. I am asked to swallow a sip of water to highlight the gentle curvature of my thyroid. I open my mouth and say "ah" with just the right pitch and resonance, although we all wish I had brushed my teeth before presenting myself. I can tell Dr. G is building a solid case for life, but it is still a bit too early to rush to any bold conclusions.

With anticipation mounting, Dr. G confirms my beating heart and functioning lungs. Next, he verifies the presence of all the vital organs: liver, stomach, and carburetor all appear operational. But one final test remains. Dr. G. pauses and turns to the spectators,

"Ideally, you ought to have clear view of the muscle contracting," he advises, his tone emphasizing the gravitas of the situation.

"Now just try to relax," he says to me.

The next thing I know, I feel the tap of the mallet on my knee as my leg flails wildly in the direction of the doctor. The spectators attempt to suppress their amusement.

I sit up and ask the burning question that is hovering ominously.

"Am I alive?"

The spectators and I wait with baited breath. Finally, the doctor nods reassuringly.

"Oh, yes," he announces, "Alive and kicking."

And with that momentous declaration, my biannual Verification of Life ritual comes to a close. A very happy ending indeed.