I'm a 51-year-old man and I’m psychologically allergic to health checks

It took my wife close to a full year to get me to turn up for my long-delayed health check-up. 

In that time, she tried encouraging me with soft prods, scathing threats and even abject fear-mongering – every trick in the book.

When it all amounted to nothing, she booked the appointment, drove me there and dropped me off like a petulant child.

Perhaps I should be slightly ashamed to admit that this was the second time in five years that my wife had had to cajole, nag, browbeat and, ultimately, schedule me into submission.

This is as conceptually infuriating as it sounds, considering I'm a grown man who officially has half a century of life wisdom and experience under his belt.

The truth is, I don't need to be told how important these checks are at my age. I am well aware, but annoyingly enough, I still resist. Purposely delay the inevitable. Make my wife re-strategise her approach at every turn. 

And as fate would have it, at the screening my wife wrestled me into doing, the doctor did detect an irregular rhythm in one of my arteries.

There were tears – mostly my wife's. After all, one of her deepest fears – that I would leave this world first – was suddenly very real.

More checks later revealed that my sputtering artery was the result of a combination of caffeine abuse, work stress and poor sleep habits. I am getting it sorted with follow-up checks, a revised diet plan and a crackdown on my coffee intake. 

STAYING ALIVE

Singaporeans are living longer than ever before. Here, the average man can expect to live up to his 80s, which by any gauge is a ripe old age. Women, obviously, are expected to live longer, but only by about four to five years.

I turn 51 years old this year. So, statistically speaking, if all goes well, I should have about 30 more good years before I kick the bucket. 

However, even with the latest finding after the check-up, I know that I will still resist the next health screening, as I have done in the past. 

I'm not alone, either. Research has shown that men are much more likely to delay or avoid healthcare seeking and preventive measures than women.

So why do I evade these very sensible, necessary checks?

In trying to rationalise and justify my own reticence, I realised that I would honestly rather not know how much of my statistically allotted 30 years I have left, because I have too many people to worry about and not enough time to worry about myself. 

At 41, my wife is likely fast approaching the midpoint of her own lifespan. Our three children are 12, 10 and seven. I am the sole breadwinner of the family. We live modestly – in our view, at least. 

One of my dearest wishes is to eventually hold in my arms a grandchild from one of my children. 

However, if I want that wish to become reality, I still have one heck of a salaryman journey ahead of me.

As the primary working adult in my household, I have to make sure my crop of kids are provided for and I have come to terms with the fact that I may never retire per se.

And all to cuddle the next generation of my family in my arms before The Imran Show finally gets cancelled.

So yes, I do think about my demise – not about preparing for it or putting it off, but rather about making my remaining time count before the clock runs out. 

HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE?

My wife's motives are simple and sincere: She wants me around longer. Her insistence on health check-ups is grounded in love, because she wants us to do what we can to catch the bad stuff early and buy ourselves more time together. 

I am no psychology expert, but here's my take on why this well-meaning argument isn't as effective on me as it may be on some others.

Now, almost immediately, most women would exclaim, as my wife initially did, "This is ridiculous, just get checked and we'll know early if we need to get it sorted!"

By that logic, the health-screening clinic would have endless lines of perfectly rational men.

But, unsurprisingly if sometimes unfortunately, we men are perfectly irrational. 

And this is where that contentious issue of the survival mindset of the male of the species descends into a paradoxical state.

I am well aware of my mortality. I also have long-term plans to provide for my dependants. So, should I pause in the middle of running the marathon to check and see how much time I have left? No. I opt to soldier on.

If I go, I go, and I will not pause for any impending full stop. 

If and when I do go for my health check-up, there are only two scenarios that may play out. 

One: All is fine, we carry on and my wife restarts her five-year cycle for the next check. 

Two: The doctor spots an issue. Cue the crying, denial, bargaining and so on – the full five stages of grief. Hopefully, the healing starts, or maybe it is already basically game over.

My wife insists I pause for the health check because of love. But in my own way, I insist on not pausing because of love as well. 

(DON'T FEAR) THE REAPER

Life in Singapore already feels like a pressure cooker. The rising cost of living. The roughness of work. The creeping uncertainty.

These things conspire to convince men like me – the sole breadwinners of our clan – that standing still just long enough for a check-up might cause everything else to fall apart. 

We are compelled to keep moving no matter what, not only because it defines our purpose, but because without it, what are we then? Who are we as husbands, fathers and sons if we cannot be providers? Who are we as men?

In the face of all these pressures and challenges, can an average Singaporean guy in his 50s – grappling with bills, responsibilities and his own stubborn reticence – hope to hold his grandchild in the foreseeable future? 

Maybe I am being unreasonably optimistic, but the way I see it, this is how I want to run my own marathon. Not by looking at my feet all the time, worrying I might trip and fall, but by looking ahead to the finish line and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. 

I am not trying to outrun death. I just don't want to pause long enough to fear it.

Imran Johri is a marketing and editorial professional and a father of three.

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