The most complete physical in town begins with a nap and ends with a whimper.
Except for the rampant, asymmetrical moles that result from Irish skin too long exposed to Texas sunlight, I fancy myself a hale fellow. Thirty-three years next month, thank you, and quite capable of whipping a man half my age. So when the people at the Baylor Executive Edge recently invited me to undergo the most complete physical available to mankind in Dallas, there was only one reason to accept: the rectal exam.
I’m kidding, of course. There were actually two reasons. I also got to skip an entire day of work. That’s how long the Baylor Executive Edge exam takes. If this sounds excessive, then you, too, are accustomed to a managed-care system. In a PPO or an HMO or an ELO or whatever, a physical might require about two hours, tops, the majority of which would be spent reading a month-old copy of Golf Digest in the waiting room. The Executive Edge, by comparison, features a “personal concierge” who escorts you through the entire process. From out of town and need directions to the test? Ask Tina. Feeling wan after your basal metabolism test and hydrostatic weigh-in? Tina will see that you get a smoothie of your choosing before your sub-maximal treadmill stress test. (Though, on my visit, I couldn’t get peanut butter in mine because they had run out. Most disappointing.)
What makes the Executive Edge worth upwards of $3,000? No waiting, some very high-tech analyses of your corpus, and as much time as you need in consultation with the same doctors who look after the Stars and Mavericks. Those still leery of the steep price should bear in mind the Executive Edge is a product of a free-market economy, wherein universal access to health care might be desirable, but access to an accurate underwater scale is only available to captains of industry and to journalists doing the people’s business. (Not to dwell on this point, but I guess only world leaders can get peanut butter in their smoothies.)
As for the exam proper, I won’t burden you with a full explanation of the entire procedure. For one thing, space prevents it. For another, my limited understanding of human biology would make it difficult. So I’ll just touch on the highlights.
The fitness evaluation took place at the Baylor Tom Landry Fitness Center. Oddly enough, it began with a 20-minute nap. Not to brag, but I could have napped for twice as long had they required it. They woke me up and had me breathe for a while into a big, plastic bag. This had something to do with measuring how efficiently I use energy in a state of rest. Most patients are required to repeat this procedure three times to ensure accuracy. I only had to do it twice. Tina was duly impressed.
From there, they weighed me underwater to determine how much body fat I have, a trick not that uncommon nowadays. But the Executive Edge doctors have developed extremely plush towels so when you come out of the heated pool, you’re warm and comfy. They also use an elaborate method to precisely measure your lung volume, which your less-sophisticated operations will simply eyeball.
After the hydrostatic underwater business, there followed the smoothie. As mentioned earlier, Tina and the entire Baylor Executive Edge program did not meet expectations here. But the treadmill was fun. And I met with a dietician who actually takes the time to analyze the menus from the restaurants you frequent and recommend healthy selections. All very thorough.
The second half of the physical took place at the Executive Edge’s base in Preston Center. There I met Dr. Paul Sokal, who, I learned, recently gave up golf because he couldn’t fix his hook and, anyway, when he ran a cost-benefit analysis of his time on the links, it just didn’t make sense to him. We also talked at length about my medical history and about my same-day blood workup, which revealed cholesterol numbers severely out of whack. Others would be alarmed at the results. Not me. That I’m not dead yet is a testament to my good health.
In the end, that’s what the Executive Edge is all about: personal attention. I had more one-on-one time with doctors that day than I probably got with my father before he left us. I met physicians who saw me as a person rather than just “the insured.” And Dr. Sokal taught me that you can’t spell “latex glove” without L-O-V-E.
