Doctor? But I’m a Man

      For the last several weeks—well, maybe even a month or so—I’ve had a medical issue. It’s a troublesome rash, a rash that won’t go away. Of course, I didn’t want to go see a doctor about it.

      My wife, on the other hand, developed a pain in the neck at the end of last week. It’s quite sore and stiff. She, quickly and responsibly, has been to the doctor twice.

      Why is it that men, including our generation, are—like me—generally more reluctant to see doctors compared to women?

      That’s not just a limited anecdotal judgment based on nothing more than my intuition. There’s research and statistics backing it up.

      In the U.S., according to the most recent numbers from the CDC, each year women make 308 physician office visits per 100 persons; men make 224 visits. In a 2022 survey, more than 95 percent of women had seen a health provider in the past two years versus around 88 percent of men. Four hundred and fifty adult women per 1,000 make a yearly visit to a health center while only 249 men per 1,000 do. Studies show men are 50 percent less likely than women to consult a doctor for preventive care or minor symptoms.

      As people age, usage rises for everyone, so the gender gap narrows somewhat. But even among older adults, women often still have more visits, the CDC has found. And it’s not just an American thing: the same patterns appear across different countries and different cultures.

      Why?

      Researchers believe traditional ideas of masculinity, which often prize toughness, independence and stoicism, prevent some men from admitting pain, vulnerability or illness. Surveys show men are more likely to delay care until symptoms are severe, partly because of what they perceive as these cultural pressures. A survey by the Cleveland Clinic found 65 percent of men avoid going to the doctor for as long as possible, often because they feel seeking medical care might make them appear weak.

      And men have historically had the excuse that they are “too busy with work.”

      I’m not too busy, definitely not now. I’m not that tough. I’m not a stoic and I am not a believer in traditional views of masculinity.

      Also, I know, like we all know—or should know—that men don’t live as long as women and by delaying care we are more likely to end up with more advanced complications from heart disease, cancers and diabetes.  

      But I’ve always been reluctant to head to the doctor at what appears to me to be the least provocation. Maybe because I’m just a little bit fearful.

      What if the annoying rash actually is an indicator of a more serious systemic problem? Or that the flutter in my chest is a recurrence of what landed me in the hospital almost two years ago? Or that the occasional numbness in my left foot means I’m going to need still more tests and more diagnoses and ultimately may have to give up running or something else I like? 

      I should, of course, want to find out about all that. But, honestly, I’m not sure I do. I’m not sure, particularly at this point, that I want to have another potential reminder of my mortality. Sure, if something appears serious, or I think could be, I’ll go get it checked out. I’m not a fool. But the little stuff, what appears to be little, I’d just as soon ignore because at a certain age the fear of hearing bad medical news becomes more realistic.

      Doctors are more likely to discover more problems because there are more problems to discover. I also figure that they are probably not going to have anything important to say about the majority of pains and odd feelings to which we are now more frequently prone. We are, after all, perfectly capable of supplying the "it doesn't seem a concern at this point but let's keep an eye on it" on our own.   

    So, after taking everything into consideration, the benighted calculation of mine is generally a stupid what-I-don’t-know-won’t-hurt-me. At least that’s what I mostly think.

      But at least not all the time. Sometimes, I realize I am indeed being dangerously foolish, and so I finally did go and see the doctor for my rash. And when my severe chest pains could no longer be reasonably attributed to heartburn, I did ultimately go to the ER, where they saved my life.

      Well, actually, my wife made me go.