Having a fall vs falling over: the point of no return?

There’s a bell curve of respect and dignity that varies with age, and it’s alarming to find yourself on the down slope.

It all started a little over a year ago with a pre-Christmas tumble, while doing one of my early-morning “Bugger, forgot it’s bin day” sprints. Half asleep, and not as nimble as I fancy, I lost my footing on the wet driveway. Propelled by its 150kg of empty bottles, the wheelie bin (which I had wisely kept hold of) scissored away and we slid apart and down like a broken stepladder.

Fortunately, my cheek and nose were there to absorb the impact, resulting in a comical amount of blood and bruising. Catwalk dreams long dead, I was content to let my face heal by itself and ­acquire another layer of character (or, in my wife’s brutal shorthand, ugliness), but I was ­ordered to see the doctor, who sent me for a CT scan.

I insisted I’d “fallen over”, but I could see by the pity in their eyes that the operators wanted to record that I’d “had a fall”. The distinction may be modest, but it’s increasingly important as you ride unsteadily into your sunset years.

So just like that, I entered the healthcare ­system! I’d been fortunate never to have spent a night in hospital or suffered any major injury or illness, but that scan hinted at something else, then blood tests returned disturbing results and within days an army of specialists were passing me around in a wonderfully thorough, attentive and ­impressive fashion.

Without going into detail (health scare stories are about as interesting as other people’s dreams, unless you’re in them) everything turned out fine, but not before I’d made plans to maximise the inconvenience of my death by ­requesting my body be flown into the sun.

The degree of terror I experienced, of course, was largely self-made. While doctors are very clever, many seem to think the only reason ­anyone else isn’t a doctor is because they were too stupid to qualify. So they talk to you as if they are dealing with an anxious toddler, and finish by saying, “Now don’t go away and look this stuff up; you’ll only frighten yourself.”

In most respects I am a model patient, but as someone whose job regularly involves looking things up and trying to make sense of them, I am extremely disobedient when told not to do my own ­research. And while I don’t regard myself as superstitious – I gaily walk under ladders and kick any black cat foolish enough to cross my path – it’s hard to resist the ominous feeling that once they start trying to “exclude” terrifying conditions in a MRI machine, they risk finding them.

But you forgive a patronising demeanour in your doctors, in exchange for their lifesaving skills. What is harder to enjoy is how that attitude has permeated broader society. In most restaurants and shops these days overfamiliarity reigns: “What can I get you, mate?” There’s a bell curve of respect and dignity that varies with age, and it’s alarming to find yourself on the down slope.

My adventures around admission desks in hospitals and radiology units have been illuminating. When the receptionist stands up and calls out “Stephen?” I look around to see if there are any other Stephens nearby. As someone who still calls my friends’ parents Mr and Mrs I’d rather be summoned by my surname, but no big deal.

Then “Can you just confirm your date of birth for me, please?” I suppose it reduces the risk of some masochistic impersonator turning up to steal whatever procedure you were booked for, but could we do it a little less publicly?

Last week I watched an elegant elderly lady have to reveal to a packed waiting room that she was born in 1940. “And what are you here for, Mary?” Mary replied quietly, then I was sad to hear her private health issues repeated to her at full volume, though no one else seemed to notice.

Obviously the staff are only doing what they’re told, so it would be churlish to complain. Instead, I have resolved to own the embarrassment. Next time I’m asked why I’m there I will declare, with a flamboyant gesture, “I’ve come to have a camera stuck up my bottom! But not in a fun way!”