As I headed home late Sunday afternoon for the winter holidays, I reflected on how well things were going in my life. Senior year at college was proving to be the most interesting yet, my friend group had broadened significantly, and I already had two interesting leads for my first job after graduation. It felt like I was coasting easily toward graduation and full adulthood. Unbeknownst to me, that impression was about to be put to the test.

As expected, the house was empty when I arrived. Mom was on a business trip for the week, and my twin sister Liz wouldn’t be on break from her own college until Thursday. It was going to be nice to have the place to myself for a few days and to chill.

After dinner I started to sense a cold coming on. That wasn’t unusual given the season, so I made myself a cup of tea before bed and didn’t give it much thought. When I woke up around 7:00 the next morning, however, I knew something more serious was wrong. My nose was running with greenish/yellowish mucous, my head was pounding behind my eyes, and I was shivering under the warm blankets of my bed. Having had a sinus infection once when I was 16, I recognised the symptoms and knew I had better see a professional.

In my recollection, however, doctors always asked about fever when scheduling “sick” visit appointments, so I figured I should probably take my temperature before doing anything else. Following that logic, I headed down the hall toward Mom’s master bedroom. It was weird, but I almost felt like I was trespassing by going into her room, a sensation that was simultaneously creepy and exciting. When I entered the en-suite bathroom and saw the medicine cabinet, my heart started racing as I recalled the last time I had been sick…

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It was just after Liz’s and my high school graduation, when I had caught a strep infection that ended up morphing into tonsillitis. What I remembered the most about being sick were the temperature measurements. When it started, Mom said she had to use the rectal thermometer because I had just drunk juice and she needed to call the doctor back right away. I recalled feeling a bit surprised at being treated like a child. But at the same time, it was weirdly reassuring to me. In fact, as a boy and later as a teenager, for reasons that I didn’t fully understand, I had used various subterfuges to avoid having to switch to oral temperatures. In hindsight, I figured that Mom must have realised (or at least suspected) that I didn’t want to change. That was probably why she assumed that I wouldn’t resist having the “baby” thermometer used on me at 18. She was right.

During the course of that illness, I ended up having my temperature taken rectally numerous times in multiple locations: at the doctor’s office, in the hospital, at friends’ houses and at home (including, most embarrassingly of all, by my sister). Each time, it was both humiliating and yet somehow extremely exciting to be so vulnerable and exposed to women caregivers. They all seemed to delight in having some control over me and getting access to my most private body part. That made the experiences strangely erotic, even though they were, nominally at least, straightforward medical procedures. During the intervening college years, I often found my mind wandering back to that illness, and memories of it tended to creep up on me at the strangest times…

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I woke from my reverie as I opened the medicine cabinet. In front of me were pill bottles and assorted first aid items, including several boxes of Band-Aids, some cough syrup and a jar of Vaseline. Then I saw the two medical thermometers in plastic cases. I knew that the one in the red case had the word “rectal” etched into the back, opposite the scale. At that point, it occurred to me that, despite being 21, I had never actually taken my own temperature. Although I had surreptitiously read temperature instructions many times in baby care books, I was still somewhat unsure, even apprehensive, about how to proceed in real life.

The first step, of course, was to decide which thermometer to use. I hesitated for several moments while contemplating the glass instruments in front of me. The two times that my temperature had been taken orally (once at summer camp and once at the doctor’s office), the experiences had been disagreeable, to say the least. I vividly recalled the acrid taste of alcohol and the discomfort of the thermometers poking under my tongue. Those unpleasant memories caused me to shudder, and I immediately made up my mind to go for the rectal method.

With my hands trembling slightly (whether from fear or excitement, I’m not sure), I picked up the red case, pulled off the cap and removed the glass thermometer. Seeing its short, stubby bulb sent shivers down my spine as I thought about the many times it had been inserted into my bottom. Using snapping motions with my wrist, I shook it to lower the column of mercury. I remembered reading once that it should register below 96 before starting, so I made sure it was down that far. I then opened the jar of Vaseline and dipped in the glass, lubricating the first half inch of the tip with a thick glob of yellow jelly, just like Mom used to do.

Rather than doing it on my own bed, I decided to stay in Mom’s room for the procedure. That idea seemed somehow naughty, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest in anticipation. After removing my bathrobe, I lay down naked on her bed, still trembling slightly as I held the lubricated thermometer. Being on my stomach made me think again of being a little boy and having Mom care for me, a thought that I savoured for a few moments. I then brought my left knee forward, which spread my buttocks apart, exposing my anus to the cool air of the room. I reached back and slowly pushed the instrument into my rectum. It felt cold as it went in, and I shuddered at the sensation, as my penis immediately got hard underneath me. After a few moments, the Vaseline started to melt, and I realised that the instrument felt strangely comfortable deep inside my rectum. I watched the time tick by on the bedside clock in a state of vague contentedness.

After 5 minutes, I removed the thermometer and wiped it with a tissue. The mercury column had climbed to 101.2. That was a bit on the high side but didn’t seem too dramatic. (I vaguely recalled that it had been over 102 when I had strep.) Heading back to the bathroom, I rinsed the thermometer and put it away back in the medicine cabinet. I then donned my bathrobe and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

The question now was what to do. I hadn’t been sick since my strep/tonsillitis just after high school graduation. So, apart from one visit to the college infirmary for a sprained ankle, I had never actually been to an “adult” doctor and didn’t even know whom to call. After thinking about it for a while, I finally decided to phone the office of my old pediatrician, Dr. Walker at Village Pediatrics, to see if they had any suggestions.

Once I got the receptionist Lori on the line, I explained to her my symptoms and my predicament. After a short pause during which it sounded like she was taking notes, Lori inquired if I had a fever. When I replied that my temperature was 101.2, she immediately asked if it was an oral or axillary reading. That question made me hesitate momentarily. I was ashamed to say that I took my own temperature like a baby. But at the same time, the conformist within me was terrified at the idea of not being truthful with a medical professional. So, I ended up responding, as casually as I could, “Um… no, rectal.” Fortunately, she couldn’t see my red face as I said it.

As it turned out, the practice was exceptionally slow that day, since both Doctor Walker and the nurse practitioner, Jill Smith, were away at a conference. So, after having put me on hold for about a minute while she consulted with one of the nurses, Lori came back and said that they could actually see me that morning, to do a preliminary assessment. If they determined I needed antibiotics, they would schedule another visit when Doctor Walker would be back. They already had my full medical history so were happy to make an exception to their normal age limit to accommodate me. I have to admit that, as a senior in college, I was a bit embarrassed at the idea of going back to the office of a children’s doctor. But at the same time, it was reassuring and even somehow titillating. I immediately accepted.