Imagine yourself as both a human and a ship, navigating life’s unpredictable waters. One special day a year, you transform into a sleek, high-tech vessel - a floating marvel of health consciousness. Your mission? To reach the shores of optimal well-being and longevity.
Japan boasts one of the world’s highest life expectancies, and it’s not just due to sushi and matcha tea (although those certainly help!). Disease prevention plays a crucial role, and that’s where the annual health check comes in. It’s practically woven into the fabric of Japanese society, mandated for all citizens and generously funded by employers.
It’s called ‘Ningen Dock’ (human dock), which is a reference to the practice of ‘dry dock’ for overhauling ships.
So once a year, you sail into a modern health centre that resembles an exclusive spa and hand over the urine sample and not one, but two stool samples you have diligently collected at home (because, well, health is serious business in this country!). Now, you’re ready for the battery of tests that run like a well-oiled machine. It’s like a conveyor belt of medical wonders. In return for 1-2 hours of your time, you get a full body check confirming that your hull is still in good shape, your bow hasn’t developed any rust and your engines are still humming along smoothly.
But wait, there’s a twist! For foreigners, ‘Ningen Dock’ isn’t always plain sailing.
For one, the results and acceptable ranges are calibrated based on what’s ‘normal’ for the average Japanese person. Unfortunately, these norms don’t account for the diversity of human genetics. So, while your results might get you a clean bill of health as a standard Caucasian in Western countries, the same results could raise eyebrows in Japan. Suddenly, you’re in the high-risk category, and it feels like your ship has hit an unexpected storm.
Secondly, there is the more obvious issue of language, as typically all documentation including the results, and the examination itself is done in Japanese only. In other words, a lot of crucial information is literally lost in translation.
I was lucky enough in past years that the clinic my company was using had started offering the health questionnaire and the result report in English (initially for free, but more recently, for a rather steep fee).
But this year, the company switched to another clinic, partly because the previous one temporarily shut for refurbishment, but also because the new one was apparently considerably cheaper, although they fully cater for English and Chinese language. Or so they claimed…
So embark with me on the most recent voyage to the dry dock, which turned out to be less than smooth sailing. We’re about to navigate the choppy waters of bureaucracy, linguistic confusion and secret cloning rooms!
It starts with an e-mail sent to me - in Japanese, which I almost dismiss as junk mail. Because you see, while I consider myself pretty fluent in verbal communication in the lingo of this country, my reading abilities are rather limited, and I usually have to resort to translation software to unravel the enigma, although quite frequently, even that leaves me with only half-solved mysteries. AI is great, but I guess there is still room for improvement.
On this particular occasion, I eventually find out that what they sent me is instructions for my upcoming check-up, with a link to an online questionnaire. Hooray for paperless progress, I think. In a country that (contrary to common perception!) is still lagging behind in digitalisation, I’m positively impressed. My joy, however, is short-lived, as I soon realise that it’s only available in Japanese!
So I reach out to HR, who perform linguistic alchemy: They painstakingly translate the contents into English and print it out for me to fill in, so that they can then enter my answers into the Japanese online questionnaire. I only realise after handing them back the papers that I have inadvertently given them insight into my entire family history of diseases and my daily eating and exercise habits… Hmmm…
And then, the appointed day arrives for the Japanese ‘Health Olympics’. I march into the flashy clinic in the busy Shibuya District, ready for the cholesterol hurdles, blood pressure sprints and urine sample relay races.
Alas, after what seems like an eternity, the receptionist announces with a frown on her face that she cannot find any record of my data online and asks me to fill in the questionnaire in paper format. With that, she hands me a stack of documents - in Japanese!
Now, let me pause here for a moment to reflect on a common assumption I encounter a lot: “You speak Japanese, so naturally, you read it like a native.” But let’s unveil the truth: I possess the reading and writing abilities of a first-grader. It’s not exactly a point of pride, though maybe it should be. While deciphering a Japanese newspaper remains beyond my grasp, I’ve at least mastered the essentials for navigating everyday life.
Though not being very hopeful, I politely ask whether they have an English version of the questionnaire, already envisioning me sitting there for the next hour or so, painstakingly decoding the questions and trying to provide the correct answers without inadvertently signing away some of my vital organs.
But to my instant relief, the receptionist produces some sheets of paper written in English. Mind you, not an actual questionnaire, just a translation of the questions and multiple-choice answers. So I still need to fill in the Japanese form. But being able to refer to the questions in English (in what I hope is the same order!) makes all the difference.
Formalities completed (for the second time), I am then handed a number tag and a clipboard with a stack of papers eager to record my vital stats, and I’m directed towards the changing room, where I’m to don a hospital gown. Here, the mundane becomes surreal: Patients enter as individuals in their street clothes, and emerge as lookalikes, as if the room were harbouring a secret cloning machine, churning out gown-clad replicas.
En route, I spot another one of that rare species of foreigners amongst a sea of Japanese patients, judging by his appearance probably Indian, looking uncertain where to go or what to do next. Clearly, the receptionist’s explanations hadn’t quite penetrated the language barrier.
So, seasoned after 28 years in Japan, I step up. “Fear not, fellow seafarer! I speak the mystical language of the land and can help guide you.” I explain that he is to pick up a gown in his size from the nearby shelves and proceed to the changing room for his transformation. He nods, grateful. I sometimes feel like a bilingual Gandalf, assisting more recent arrivals to the country.
With my own metamorphosis complete, I emerge from the changing room clasping the clipboard, which I then deposit in a marked tray in the corridor, before I sit down on a bench, waiting for my number to be called. It’s like a medical bingo game. I’m not just a patient; I’m a contestant in this grand medical lottery.
After a mere minute, a nurse retrieves my clipboard and calls my number. Suppressing the urge to shout “Bingo!”, I dutifully rise from the bench and follow her down the corridor, the eyes of the other patients seemingly saying, “Good luck, fellow traveller”. There is no turning back now.
1. The Height-Weight Tango
The nurse leads me into one of several rooms along the corridor and asks me to step onto the scale. She eyes me, clipboard at the ready. I straighten my spine, hoping for that extra centimetre. But nope, I’ve shrunk. Apparently, my spine is playing hide-and-seek with my height. Meanwhile, my weight is doing the cha-cha, twirling in the opposite direction. I blame those European croissants on my trip in May - they’ve taken up permanent residence on my hips. Note to self: Next time, schedule the health check BEFORE the holiday feasting!
2. The Blood Pressure Squeeze Fest
The nurse directs me to the blood pressure machine. The cuff wraps around my arm like a boa constrictor. Beeps ensue. Numbers flash. The nurse frowns. “A bit high,” she remarks, “let’s try again”, obviously hoping for a better result this time. But no such luck. It’s the whole clinic vibe that gets my blood pressure up every time. We are at Hypertension Central.
3. Eye Olympics
Next up it’s the ophthalmological examination. I peer through a set of lenses, having to indicate by pressing a button on which side of the circle the opening is. Gradually, the circle shrinks until it’s practically the size of an atomic particle. Left? Right? Top? Bottom? I channel my inner gambler, figuring that I have a 25% chance of getting it right. I’m basically playing eye roulette. It’s like multiple choice questions at school exams all over again.
4. Fundoscopy: Blink or Die Trying
Just in case you’re wondering: This has little to do with ‘fun’. It is to check the fundus of your eyes for potential eye-related diseases. I’m sitting in a darkened room with two sinister-looking contraptions with lenses I need to look through. At the first one, the nurse asks me to open my eyes wide, before a substance is sprayed into them. Then she tells me to move to the adjacent device and keep my eyes wide open without blinking, while a picture is taken. But my eyeballs rebel. She tells me that she didn’t get a good enough shot and we need to repeat the whole procedure. More spraying. More blinking. It’s like a water fight with my corneas, but in the end she gets the shots that she desires.
After this, I get moment of respite, while waiting in the corridor for the next round of tests. But the pause is short-lived, because after only a minute another nurse calls out my number and accompanies me into another room. They’re clearly on a mission to meet their daily targets, and I have no doubt that they will.
5. Electrodes and Beeps
I’m lying on the bed, electrodes clinging to my chest like tiny alien hitch-hikers. The ECG machine beeps in a steady rhythm. I half-expect it to break into a disco tune, but I figure that wouldn’t be a good sign. The nurse watches, scribbling notes. I guess they are saying that my heart is still doing the thing it’s designed to do, which should be reassuring.
6. Deflationary Balloon Competition
The room doubles also as a venue for the Respiratory Function Test. So once the electrodes have been taken off my chest and I’m standing upright again, I’m handed a tube and asked to go through a series of breathing patterns, each time culminating in a deep intake of breath, followed by a powerful puff into the tube, while the adjacent machine analyses my lung power. I try to give it my all and then feel like a deflated balloon, with all the air having left my lungs. I’m not really sure how I have performed, as the nurse’s face is giving nothing away.
7. Beepocalypse Now
After another short interval on the corridor bench - to literally catch my breath, I’m led into yet another room and into a soundproof booth, which reminds me a bit of a tiny nuclear bunker. I’m asked to put headphones on and to press the button on the device in my hand whenever I can hear a beep. The beeps begin - a symphony of confusion. Sometimes I’m not sure whether the beeps are just in my head, but I press the button anyway. Better sound than sorry. After a couple of minutes, the door to the bunker is opened, and the nurse nods with satisfaction. Apparently I’ve nailed the button-pressing game.
8. The Ninja Needle
Time for some blood ‘donation’. A ninja disguised as a phlebotomist appears, masked and stealthy. I extend my arm for the inevitable needle prick, and I brace myself. But before I can even summon a mental mantra of courage, I realise she’s already at work - drawing blood with the precision of a seasoned assassin. And as seemingly pints of the crimson flows into the various collection tubes, I make a mental note to ‘replenish myself’. A glass of wine or two, I decide, shall be my reward at the end of the day.
9. The X-Ray Extravaganza
I’m taken to a different area of the clinic, sporting doors with a yellow warning sign, and I sense that it’s time for the Upper Chest X-ray and my annual dose of radiation.
It’s one of the more contentious checks of the ‘Ningen Dock’, as most doctors in Western civilisation regard it as over-the-top for people without any symptoms that would warrant an X-ray. In Japan, however, it’s just part of the annual procedure.
10. The Barium Bonanza
There is also the Upper Gastrointestinal X-ray, which checks for potential problems in your digestive tract. This is probably the least favourite of all the tests, because of the chalky liquid (Barium) they make you swallow, and the discomfort you feel while being moved around like a human Tetris piece on a huge contraption that a James Bond villain would be proud of. You’re half expecting lasers to appear while you’re being tilted in all directions. Not to mention the after-effects in the form of constipation.
The good news is that there is an alternative. The bad news: It’s an endoscopy, where the doctors shoves a tiny camera down your throat and sends it on an expedition tour of your internal organs. I had the ‘pleasure’ of going through the procedure at my home doctor’s practice earlier in the year, so I’m thankfully exempted this time.
11. The Belly Serenade: Abdominal Ultrasound
I’m lying here, with the ultrasound wand gliding over my exposed belly, expertly guided by the technician, so that she can snap beautiful pictures of my kidneys, spleen, pancreas and whatever else is tucked in there. After about ten minutes, she wipes the gel off my skin and indicates that the exam is over. I half-expect her to say, “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”
12. The Doctor’s Consultation: Wisdom Dispensed
Finally, the pièce de résistance - the doctor’s office. He looks over my test results (at least those that are revealed on the day), skillfully feels for pulses in my neck and ankles (which can apparently reveal the presence of cardiovascular diseases) and asks whether I’m currently experiencing any health issues, which I deny. And then I’m done.
I emerge from the ‘Ningen Dock’, slightly dazed, but relieved it’s over for another year (though the full test results won’t be known for another couple of weeks, when I get them in the post).
I now feel ready again to conquer the waves of life. May my hull stay rust-free, my engines purr like contented kittens, and my life expectancy rival that of a wise old sea turtle. Here’s to my health!
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